


The Masks of Real Heroes

by Aelys_Althea



Series: From Slips To Steps [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Care of Magical Creatures, Changing Allegiances, Child Abuse, Domestic Violence, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, F/M, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Minor Character Death, Obliviousness, Poor Harry, Pre-Slash, Sexual Abuse, Slash, Slow Build, Sort of NBWL, Technically good Slytherins
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-08
Updated: 2016-01-30
Packaged: 2018-04-13 14:56:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 30
Words: 272,230
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4526436
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aelys_Althea/pseuds/Aelys_Althea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One desperate decision has unimaginable consequences. When Harry received his letter at eleven, he turned down the offer to attend Hogwarts. He had to; it was his only chance to escape. Five years later and, in the brief moments he recalls his decision, he feels nothing but regret. Until an incident causes the opportunity to arise once more, and he is finally given the chance to escape that which has smothered him for so long.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Choices We Make

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: Thanks J.K. Rowling for providing such a great story to build from! No profit is made from this story. All rights for original storyline and characters belong to the wonder-woman herself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, this is my first story that I'm posting online (yay!!!). I hope you enjoyed it. Please leave any comment, questions or constructive criticisms below. I'd love to hear from you :)
> 
> **I'm in the process of re-editing this piece so I apologise if it's a bit all over the place**

The deafening roar of persistent traffic, interlaced with the haphazard buzzing of horns and the erratic chatter of crowds, gradually sank into a misty echo as Harry made his way from school. Trudging slowly, dragging his feet across flawless tarmac as he wandered up the incline, he drew out his trek to the utmost degree. Harry didn't want to be back in the House. Not that school was much more preferable, but the House entailed certain impositions that, even in the instances he found only himself within its walls, still retained the murkiness of a dark cloud looming over his shoulder.

It made relaxation, enjoyment, calm - any sort of pleasure, really - impossible.

Sighing, blowing at the curling tips of his fringe where they hooked on the rim of his glasses, Harry drew his gaze down the street that led to the House. It was a quiet, typically suburban street of quiet, typically suburban Paris, reclining lazily along the outskirts of the city. Each house was identical in their mediocrity, or near enough that it made little enough difference. The sole distinguishing features were the vehicles stationed statically in the driveways, yet even they held consistency; sleek and new, waxed and polished to a reflective shine, they breathed wealth more sincerely that a handful of solid coin.

The sun had long begun its steady decline, seeming to drop inches each time Harry turned his back in a game of grandma’s footsteps. Before it sunk completely below the horizon, Harry knew he had to be back. He knew because his uncle reminded him with a gentle pat to the shoulder every morning before sauntering into his own polished car and pulling into the distance in a cloud of smoke and the smell of burnt rubber. Barely a fingernail of the golden redness remained of the sun when he drew alongside the familiar fence, a crown upon the uneven head of the city that sprawled beneath it. That was one positive, and perhaps the only positive, of living at the House. Its situation afforded him a near perfect view of the town as it gradually faded into the distance, morphing into an indistinguishable greyness.

Sighing again, dragging fingers through the tangles of his hair, Harry wove his way up the final steps towards the House. The sleek black Maserati parked  in the drive bespoke his uncle’s return home before him. Hunching his shoulders, Harry dropped his chin as his feet dragged him ever forwards as if against his will.

_Why? Why did I ever choose to come here?  
_

* * *

  
~ _Ten years ago~_

"Stupid - pathetic - useless - brat!"

Harry cringed with each word, though more from the punctuated lashes of leather than from the criticisms themselves. Rough red welts smeared his forearms, weaving a crosshatch of bruised and raised skin that stung as though garnished with lemon juice. Harry curled tightly on the floor, arms wrapped protectively over his head and knees tucked to his chest to present only his back open to the raining blows. His body shook both from the dull aches and the force of the strikes.

"Can't you follow even the simplest of instructions?"

Peering through the lank lengths of his fringe, Harry glimpsed the mottled face of Uncle Vernon as he bellowed. Spittle dribbled from his lips, only adding to the animalistic image he presented in his heightened fury.

"Well? What do you have to say for yourself?"

Harry closed his eyes, ducking from the swinging belt that once more swiped him with a stinging slap. A faint whimper slipped from his clamped lips; the belt had hit another blossoming bruise and it exploded in a shower of pain that shuddered along his spine.

"I... I'm s -"

"Huh? What did you say?" The whale of a man, face darkening to a sickening mask of plum-red and pig eyes bulging as they strained from their sockets, leaned awkwardly Harry as he shrunk beneath him. The heavy panting of his breaths only seemed to emphasise the ferocity of his anger, the euphoric aggression of complete domination.

"I'm sorry," Harry managed. "I swear I won't do it again."

He choked out the words in little more than a whisper, but the expectant silence allowed his uncle to discern the words clearly enough. Straightening, he tugged the creases from his shirt, looped his belt back into his sagging trousers and wiped a hand across his face. Sweat left a glistening sheen upon his flushed cheeks.

"Damned right you won't do it again," he grumbled. "I'll beat the living daylights out of you if you even think of eating so much as the _scraps_ off the _floor_ before I let you." Dusting his hands and ridding himself of the matter, Vernon aimed another solid kick at Harry's trembling body before turning from him. "Get yourself back to your cupboard. No dinner and no breakfast. Half portions for three days."

Harry cringed upon himself in an attempt to avoid the seeping pain that steadily made itself known throughout his body. Dropping his head heavily to the floor in a jarring slap of tiles, he closed his eyes, a sigh of mixed relief and exhaustion whispering through his lips.

He had just been so hungry. So, so hungry, even for the scarce leavings his cousin Dudley had abandoned after he'd finished. But he'd pushed the boundaries of what his uncle deemed acceptable. Never again would he disobey a direct order from him. No matter how empty his belly.

Groaning, Harry heaved hands and knees and, in more of a crawl than a walk, swaying beneath the throbbing pains. The exhaustion of muscles held taut for too long whimpered their protest. Suppressing a sob, he made his slow, painful way towards the cupboard under the stairs

He regretted the loss of the next two meals almost as much as his punishment. But he was a bad child, a freak. He deserved it.

* * *

Harry dropped his keyring into the bowl beside the doorway, taking care to avoid jangling them overtly and drawing attention to his arrival. Slipping down the wide, dimly-lit hallway, he edged into the first doorway he came across, closing the door with practiced quietness. Inside the room was small, tidy and plain, devoid of any hint of chaos or personalisation. It was completely stark, just the way his uncle liked it. The sole personalised item lay in a small bundle of black fur curled in the center of the bed, tufted ears twitching towards Harry as he entered the room.

Dropping his satchel onto the bed, Harry sunk into the softness of the pale quilt cover and dropped a hand lightly onto the back of the little cat beside him. Slipping his feet from his shoes, he curled them into the thick carpet, into the comfort of expensive living. The faint streams of evening light cast golden halos on the walls, illuminating dust motes that danced lazily in the stagnant air. Closing his eyes, Harry sighed in the moment that was the nearest to peace he would experience in the House. It wouldn't last long, but for now...

A faint click caught his ears. Blinking his eyes open, Harry glanced at the door as it swung gently open on well-oiled hinges. A pale, wide-set man filled the doorway, dark hair slicked to perfection across his scalp and mirroring the smooth, trimmed beard that adorned his chin. His strong jawline yet weak chin, trademark of the Dursley family, alongside the faint gleam of calculating hunger in his watery eyes, were his only outstanding features. One had to squint to see them both for the respectable veils he shrouded them in.

Raising his arms to prop on the polished edges of the door frame, Harry's uncle slouched his solid frame into comfortable observation. Though dressed as a businessman, suit maintaining its pressed lines, his loosened tie and untucked shirt suggested he'd slipped into ease in the casualness of his own home. A deceptively welcoming smile spread across his face.

"You're home late."

Harry turned his face away from the door that was barred as effectively as if by a barbed wire fence. He felt a moment of loss as the little cat at his side grumbled discontentedly and fled the room, just visible as she slipped past the man’s ankles on the edges of his periphery. He raised a single shoulder, shrugging, and fixed his gaze pointedly on the window. "It's still light. I just had some things to do back at school."

Harry didn't need to turn to look at his uncle; he felt him enter the room. Like a warm, pungent cloud wafting its cloying tendrils, his scent, a heady mixture of stale aftershave, dry sweat and starched clothes, swept over him with increasing strength at he drew closer. He didn't need to turn to acknowledge his uncle's approach, didn't need to glimpse his proximity before he was barely suppressing a flinch when thick fingers touched his cheek.

His uncle huffed, a heavy sound that was at odds with the gentleness of his caress. Harry closed his eyes once more, concentration focused entirely upon repressing a reflexive shudder. He swallowed back the barest hint of nervousness that still managed to rise within him. Harry hadn't lied, not even to himself. Fear was unwarranted.

"I saw a teacher," he said. "He was helping me with my chemistry homework. I just didn't understand one of the formulas so I -"

"Lies. Don't lie to me, Boy," his uncle grumbled, leaning towards Harry's ear and licking it with a puff of hot breath. "Don't think I don't know how you spend your time away from here. Studying? Don't make me laugh."

He laughed regardless of his claim, though entirely humourlessly. Harry couldn't suppress the faint tremble of his shoulders this time as he felt his uncle's building anger. This wasn't like when he was younger. It was different to Vernon’s aggressive and physical violence. Quite the opposite. His Uncle Stephen's rage built slowly, coldly, and with overwhelming calculation.

"Oncle, please, I really was -"

Releasing an inaudible cry, barely a tremble of his lips and the sound dying in his throat, Harry raised his hand to his ear. His fingers felt along the bite mark that impressed into the lobe, stinging sharply. He glanced sidelong towards his uncle, eyes instinctively widening yet otherwise struggling to maintain his blank facade. He wasn't surprised, for the bite wasn't unexpected. Nothing could ever truly be unexpected. Not with his uncle.

"Don't think I don't know," Stephen said. "Damn it all, if it didn't draw unwanted attention from the bloody school, you wouldn't leave this room." Curling thick fingers into Harry's hair, Stephen dragged his head backwards until it twisted just short of painfully. Leaning over Harry's face, he planted an almost painful kiss on his cheek. There was no love in the motion. Only possessiveness.

Then he frowned. "Why are you still wearing your glasses?"

Harry blinked up at his uncle, muffling his wariness. The slicked crown of Stephen's hair swam in a film of tears. Not pain, nor any real fear, for he'd moved beyond that. Utter hopelessness was left only in its wake. "I'm sorry, Oncle," he murmured. "I wasn't thinking."

Another kiss, followed by the slimed tracing of a tongue. "Obviously. Take them off. They are for others to see, not for me. Don't let me catch you wearing them inside again."

Attempting a nod, Harry unhooked his glassed from his ears and dropped them on the bed beside him. The motion seemed to give permission for his uncle to grasp his head in both hands more firmly, fingers gripping Harry's jaw as thumbs moved to brush the overgrown fringe from his face. Harry met Stephen's flat blue eyes through the fuzziness of his own, peering at him with what had become a familiar and seemingly nonsensical fascination. For whatever reason, Harry's eyes seemed to captivate his uncle. When staring at himself in the mirror, he simply turned repulsed from the blank flatness of his own gaze.

Stephen's breath hitched, excitement increasing the tempo of his inhalations. Harry caught a flicker of his pale tongue draw across his lips before his uncle crushed them firmly to his own. The same dry, tasteless kiss that was so familiar, lacking in passion and coloured only by his obsession. The man broke their contact only seconds later. Feverish light kindled in his eyes as he met those of his charge.

"Mine."

* * *

 ~ _Eight Years Ago~_

Harry edged uneasily past his cousin's bulk, sliding into the kitchen with arms laden beneath scraped plates and fingers curled tightly around empty cups. Dudley was barely a year older than him yet he took up most of passage into the kitchen at nearly three times Harry's size. As Harry struggled past him, a scowl grew to accompany his affronted expression before he toddled into the dining room once more. Likely at his proximity of the 'freak'.

Harry was used to that.

Resolutely ignoring Dudley's scowl, Harry set about sinking his fingers into the suds and steaming warmth of the dishwashing water. He didn't really mind cleaning. At least it was away from the Dursleys, and his only critic was the fanatically finicky Petunia rather than the cuisine judges lounging at the dinner table who deemed it their role to critique every dish Harry contributed to preparing ill in his favour. Not that he really cared about that, either, but if the disgust were too overwhelming then Vernon would take a hand to him. Despite years of subjugation he couldn't grow accustomed consistent bruising. He would have to work on getting over that.

"...said it was old enough and to let the mutt just die. Said he'd probably done him a favour!"

Laughter roaring with clamouring intensity met Grandfather Rick's story. Jowls shook and feet stamped in amusement. Bowed over the sink as he was, Harry could only frown, confused. He couldn't fathom the enjoyment of a story based solely upon the careless destruction of a dog, nor the apparent delight his family bellowed at Rick's response. Casting a sidelong glance at the table over the kitchen counter, Harry caught the eye of Aunt Marge. She appeared to be the only family member not shaking in cackling hysterics. Her fingers trailed over the rump of the bulldog at her feet, fat lips pouting and small eyes squinting murderously at her father. It was apparent that her own canine affections induced disgruntlement regarding the joke at hand. Harry felt the unfamiliar ghost of a smile curl his lips at the kindred spirit. It was entirely unexpected, both on his part and evidently on Marge's, for said disgruntlement morphed into disgust as she caught his expression.

"Vernon," she barked. "The boy is smirking at me. Send him away."

The laughter muted as Vernon turned furiously towards the kitchen. Harry ducked his head, attempting a demonstration of his regret, but he couldn't entirely escape the fumes of hatred radiating from his uncle at having the good humour disrupted.

"Boy," he barked in a tone identical to Marge's. "Cupboard. Now."

Swallowing the tightness in his throat, Harry bobbed his head in acceptance. He paused only to pull the plug from the sink before slinking from the kitchen and through the cluttered dining room, back pressed to the wall. "You should punish the boy, Vernon," Marge's said, her petulant tone whipped his back as he retreated down the hallway. "Won't learn anything from a simple scolding."

Harry cringed as he hastened into the hallway. _No, please don't push him, don't-_

"Yes, you are absolutely right, Marge." The malice practically speared Harry in the back as Vernon's words rang after him. "No one ever learnt anything from a few hard words. I should-"

"Please, allow me, dear cousin."

A new voice interrupted the conversation. It carried a lilting melody to it, rising and curling the words in an unfamiliar accent. Harry paused only briefly as he crouched outside his cupboard door to wonder at the source of the voice before slipping into the darkness of the cave beneath the stairwell. He curled into the blankets on his makeshift mattress, dropping his chin onto his knees.

The darkness remained unbroken only briefly. Within moments the cupboard door was swinging outward once more, squeaking on untreated hinges and raining a puff of sawdust from the stairwell overhead. Harry glanced upwards warily. The figure in the doorway was only a shadow, framed by the light of the hallway shining around him like an aura into the darkness of the little cupboard. His features were indiscernible.

 _"Bonjour_ , 'Arry." A smile floated upon his tone, that lilting accent that captured the ear ringing through his words. It was captivating, yet even so Harry felt himself sink further into the safety of his cupboard. The man was new, different, and if experience had taught him anything it was not to touch the new, the shiny, the appealing.

The man chuckled in good humour, shuffling slightly further into the reaches of Harry's sanctuary. Shadow's still masked his face, yet the illumination of the hallway light was shrouded by the bulk of his adult form. "Please don't be afraid of me. I'm not going to 'punish you' as Vernon so eloquently phrased it. How crude." A strange scratching noise filled the quiet of the little nook. It took a moment for Harry to realise that the man was picking awkwardly at his chin, fingers grazing over the short hair of a barely visible goatee in the dim light. "I don't believe in violence as a punishment. Violence and punishment just don't seem to complement one another."

It was too late to withdraw before Harry realised the man had reached out a hand towards him. He cringed, flinching under the weight that fell atop his head and sinking his teeth into his bottom lip to repress the cries he feared would bubble from his throat. Except it never came. Nor did the hard-handed cuff, the torrent of curses and harsh scolding. Instead, the hand drew slowly through his hair, trailing fingers in the thick, messy mane and running fingertips in gentle strokes. 

Harry was immobilised. He'd never felt something so gentle in his life. A touch without pain, more intimate than the accidental brush of a passer-by on the shoulder and infinitely more satisfying. It was the best feeling he'd ever had. He couldn't get enough of it.

He didn't know how long he sat in absolute stillness, praying for the stroking to continue indefinitely. Harry didn't know how long had passed, but he knew how many caresses the man placed upon his head. Seventy-three. Seventy-three exactly.

As his hand rose for the seventy-fourth, the shadowed man seemed to pause, catching himself. "Hm," he hummed lowly, raising his hand to scratch idly once more at his chin in the scratchy sound. "I think that was probably long enough to satisfy my dear cousin. _Au revoir, mon chéri_." Then he rose and the door swung shut behind him as if by its own accord.

Harry sat in his continued state of immobilisation, reliving the gentle touches, each a generously bestowed gift as though pearls washed unexpectedly upon a beach. He could barely hear the ragged breaths panting from his parted lips, was only detachedly aware of an entirely new trembling that shook his body.

That family gathering was the first time he had ever happened upon Uncle Stephen.

* * *

A strangled groan passed through his lips as Stephen abruptly halted erratic motions, a moan that faded into a sigh of relief. Harry lay limply beneath, caught in his arms like a moth pinned in a spider's web. Though his own arms wrapped loosely around Stephen's shoulders, his legs locked high across his back at the ankles, and despite what he might otherwise desire, Stephen had to acknowledge that the boy by no means indicated satisfaction or welcome of his embrace. The blankness of his expression could have rivalled that of a doll’s.

Stephen barely lifted his head before dropping his face onto the pillow beside Harry's, gazing at the boy that lay half buried beneath him. The discrepancy in their ages could not be the only reason for the difference in their sizes. The boy had been neglected and shunned for the first eleven years of his life and the result was on reminiscent of a child three years his junior. A small one, at that. Stephen stared fixedly upon the boy's sharp-featured profile, the faint rise and fall of his chest that faintly heaved his shoulders and wore the faint impressions of ribs like a tattoo. Food didn’t seem to stick to the boy, made no impression on his skinniness at all.

There was something so satisfying about dominating such a fragile creature that refused point blank to fight back. In his curiosity, Stephen had pushed and prodded the boy through various forms of hell and back to see just what would make him twitch, but to no avail. The boy was a blank slate, a canvas wiped clean and free for whatever paints he chose to streak it with. Such experimentation was purely exhilarating.

Shifting to roll over him once more, Stephen propped his elbows on either side of Harry's chest and peered down at his face. Unconsciously, his hands rose to run fingers through the boy’s hair. Slowly, gently. A caress.

Harry appeared either to be pointedly ignoring him or lost in the depths of his mind for his eyes remained glazed at Stephen's motions. Stephen hardly cared anymore. Of course, it would have been amusing on a different level had the boy kicked and writhed every time he had taken him, yet the simple acceptance of the unavoidable held its own appeal. Stroking a hand downwards, across the boy’s forehead, he flicked the dark hair from his pale skin, trailing fingers through the length as it to the tips that hung across his shoulders. Sliding fingers back up once more, across cheeks bones, down the dip of a nose, along the soft hairs of eyebrows. And finally, gaze locking onto the enchanting greenness of the boy's eyes.

Stephen could not have said exactly why he found it so captivating. Unusual though they were, the colour itself was not entirely unique. Large and wide, almost cat-like, they even lacked the vibrancy, the sparkle of life that was so intoxicating to behold in a willing recipient. Yet even staring into their flat blankness triggered a sharp response that Stephen could comprehend about as effectively as he could control.

The stirrings of lust resurfaced with his contemplation. It had been barely minutes, not yet half an hour, since his last bout, yet the uncontrollable wave flushed his skin nonetheless. His urge was only fuelled by the fact that he hadn't withdrawn from the boy upon completion. Another groan heaved from his lips as he felt himself swell, heat flooding his groin.

Grasping the boy's thighs, pressing himself more firmly into the soft body beneath him, he planted a kiss upon limply parted lips. Tongue sliding into an unresponsive mouth, licking, tasting, grazing along teeth in an assault that met as little resistance as that upon the boy's entire body. Drawing back, he buried his head into the crook of the boy's neck, breathing in the young scent of him and closing his eyes.

"Mine."

* * *

~ _Five Years Ago~_

_Dear Mr Potter,_

_We are pleased to inform you that you have a place at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry..._

Harry scanned the letter, skimming the script briefly before rereading with greater intensity. It was a simple letter. Too simple. Too direct. Words jumped out at him - Witchcraft and Wizardry... Merlin... Warlock... Each glimpse of the cursive letters shocked him like an electric current thrumming beneath his skin, worse even than physical blows in their unfamiliarity. They dug intrusively into his brain like nails embedded mercilessly into dry wood. _Wrong. Wrong. It was bad, so wrong, so freakish..._

Harry slowly raised his gaze towards the giant towering above him. His face, barely discernible through the thick tangle of beard and wiry hair, beamed expectantly at him. Harry swallowed, turning to glance at his Uncle Vernon pressing firmly against the cushion of Petunia and Dudley, crushing them against the wall behind him. The darkness of the sea-bound cabin they'd fled to in an attempt to escape the endless flurry of acceptance letters nearly shadowed even his bulk, but somehow his expression was still visible. Vernon met his gaze and through the darkness Harry could make out the tightening of his jaw, the steady throb of a vein in his forehead. His words of only the day before echoed in his mind.

_"It's a school for freaks, for madmen. They are all lunatics, I tell you! I will not pay for some crackpot old fool to teach you magic tricks.' He huffed as if with exertion, heaving with the force of his emotion._

_Apparently seeing the mounting wariness within Harry, Vernon made his first and final concerted effort to calm himself. "Listen, boy. I'm not clueless. I have no doubt you loathe me almost as much as I detest your worthless little self." He wiped a hand across his face, smearing the gathered pinpricks of sweat, and blessedly failed to notice Harry's instinctive flinch at his words. It was not as though they were surprising, but hearing them stated so bluntly, so factually and without the heat of emotion, ripped wide a jaggedly healed wound that Harry had not even been aware existed. His trembling hand clawed his chest, twisting into the folds of his oversized shirt. His gaze was downcast when Vernon once more turned his attention towards him._

_"Now listen," he repeated, visibly struggling to verbalise his intentions in a semblance of civility. "I'll not let you take your ruddy self to a school that revels in this…this… insanity. However, the thought has also crossed my mind that, even if only for a portion of the year, you would be removed from my house."_

_Vernon paused, as though awaiting a reply. Peering nervously at his uncle, Harry nodded a hesitant reply. A sigh escaped silently from his pouted lips as Vernon continued, satisfied Harry was listening. "As soon as the first letters came, it got me thinking. I don't want you charging off to dabble in the insanity of witchcraft to try and remove yourself from our care, only to come back and wreak havoc. You've seen the danger it causes with your own hands. I know you’ve used it before. So I offer you a proposition. You remember Stephen? Stephen Defaux? He's a distant relative of mine, lives over in France. You would have only met him once."_

_Harry froze. Even his nervous trembling was immobilised in his silent shock. Careful questioning and quiet, offhand comments on his part had finally uncovered the name of the man who had shown him the first gleam of kindness he had ever experienced. He'd relived the beauty of the sensation thousands of times in the years since._

_He'd assumed his hesitant questions had been subtle enough. Evidently not._

_"Of course you do, it was the only thing you talked about in the weeks following the dinner party." Vernon cleared his throat, his discomfort playing across his face like the exaggerated expressions of a stage actor. A twitch tugged at one eye and he seemed to physically struggle with civility. "Well, I so happened to get in contact with him. Refuse the school and you can go and live with him. No questions asked, guardianship will be fully handed over. From what I can gather, his position in his business bestows a certain amount of leeway in terms of legal circumstances. He's already assured me he can gain custody."_

_Harry could barely breathe at the possibility. More than the vague excitement of attending an unknown boarding school, the possibility for permanent freedom from the Dursleys was a dish that could not be left untasted._

Shifting his gaze once more to the giant leaning above him where his wide grin stretched only more broadly across rosy cheeks, Harry gradually shook his head. With something akin to sadness, he watched the confusion, then the building horror crumple the man’s friendly expression.

"Harry, what are yeh-"

"Thank you, sir," Harry mumbled. "I really appreciate you coming out to see me and all but... I am happy with where I am. Please sir, I don't want to leave. I-I have a high school lined up and everything. Please don't make me go."

Harry bowed his head, hiding from the scrutiny of the giant man. It was a lie through and through, and he'd never been very good at speaking lies. He could feel the falsehood ringing through his formality and clenched his eyes shut, praying that the man wouldn't be able to read through his feeble attempt at a fabricated story. Silence hung heavily in the air, the tension pervasive. Harry felt almost as though he would snap under the force until the giant-man finally heaved a sigh.

"Alrigh' Harry. I don' want teh push yeh into doin' somethin' yeh don' want teh. I'll just -" The giant paused, turning slightly and taking a step towards the door of the cabin. An audible swallow preceded his parting words. "Think abou' the offer, would yeh? Yeh don' have teh take it up if yeh don' truly want teh, but I - and Dumbledore o’ course - think it's an opportunity that shouldn' be missed."

The joviality and confidence of his words sounded nearly aggressive to Harry's already shredded nerves. He barely suppressed a flinch, dropping his eyes to his feet and only raised them again when the door to the cabin slammed shut. Glancing once more at his uncle, Harry caught a glimpse of Vernon's satisfied smirk before he finally led his Petunia and Dudley back to their beds.

Three more times the teachers of Hogwarts approached Harry to press his admission upon him. With each revisit of the various teachers, and finally the elderly, regal headmaster himself, he only grew more confident in his decision. He wanted - no, he _needed_ to escape the Dursleys. Even attending boarding school wouldn't grant him eternal reprieve.

When the closing date had finally passed, Vernon proceeded with the transfer of custody. Harry passed into the clutches of his bachelor second cousin, the 'call me Oncle' Stephen, and was swept from the streets of Little Whinging and into tumultuous Paris.

He had never made a poorer choice in his life.


	2. The Choices We Are Given

On a mild summer afternoon, in the backstreets of the city suburbs, an explosion erupted. It was not an explosion that bespoke terror; London was experiencing it's own share of those with the rise of a certain Dark wizard, though it's sister countries had yet to taste his wrath. Instead, the eruption that arose was a blast of pure magic, invisible to Muggles yet one that caused all witches and wizards within a mushroomed radius to turn and stare, senses tingling at the display of power. Could magic have bloomed in the air like a visible cloud, the flowering eruption would have been seen from the other side of the city.

The French ministry, namely the _Auror de Paris_ , were shell-shocked. Such a magical display was easily traceable, and as such a troupe of the most powerful withchs and wizards in the country trekked to the epicenter. Not nerves but wariness thrummed through their ranks, for surely the author of the magical signature would be truly powerful - and truly distressed - to have caused such a phenomenon. As they approached the crater-like fallout of the explosion, it was as though every one of them stepped into a ghost town. The world around them appeared frozen, captured like a Muggle photograph with cars halted and puttering as their drivers slumped forwards motionlessly in their seats. Pedestrians were crumpled to the floor in awkward poses that belied their peaceful, sleepy smiles. Even the occasional dog or bird squatted silently, nestled upon themselves in a dreamless daze as though weariness had finally overtaken them and nursed them into blissful sleep.

Despite the stasis, no accidents dotted the slumbering streets. The traffic appeared to have halted immediately, as though with every sleeper behind the wheel whose internal brakes had locked down their weary minds, those same brakes had stilled their vehicle from aimlessly ploughing into fellow travelers. It was eerie; the magical explosion should have been absent of reason, the residual fallout of powerful emotion that left no outlet, and yet the reaction it forced upon the sleepers seemed more calculated than spontaneous.

When the _Aurors_ eventually reached the absolute centre of the eruption, the source of the phenomenon became immediately apparent. Traces of magic still writhed overhead like a flavour on the wind, like smoke curling patterns in the air. The tendrils wrapped loosely around the shoulders of a boy, stroking as though soothing him. Before any of the Aurors could voice question or accusation, the child raised his gaze towards them. He spoke.

"It was an accident," he said. "I’m sorry, I... Can you fix it?"

The plea was desperate, bordering on terrified, yet contrasted starkly to the blank expression on the boy's face. There was truly no other reply that would be possible to give in the face of his distress. As one, the Aurors nodded their heads and closed ranks around the child, offering murmurs of reassurance as they removed him from the scene.

Moments after stepping out of the magical ghost town, the inhabitants awoke, yawned and initiated their activities as though the siesta were an everyday occurrence. No one noticed the absence of the boy. It was as though his very presence were erased from their minds.

* * *

Albus Dumbledore strode through the _Ministere de la Magie_ with purpose, robes billowing  behind him like flaring wings. Only the slight crookedness of his pointed hat and even more slightly lopsided tilt to his half-moon spectacles indicated his haste bordered on frantic.

That unshakeable law. It had been a problem, in Albus' opinion, many times before and likely would be again. If only the Minister for the Parisian Magical Government would see reason and enforce mandatory attendance in their magical educational system. Then events such as young witches and wizards erratically unleashing their uncontrollable powers would not occur. Albus thanked Merlin the incident has been benign. Had physical damage been imposed upon the nearby Muggles, the situation would have been far more controversial, and far harder to smother from unwanted eyes.

Striding into the foyer of the Department of Magical Education, Albus halted briefly at the reception desk before passing directly into the primary office. Raucous voices assaulted his ears before he'd stepped a foot through the door. Inside, in the plain, simple room with little more than a desk and walls hidden beneath shelving, a battle raged.

"...'ow you can expect uz to simply let you 'ave 'im. 'E is a resident of the Parisian Magical Protection Zone and as such 'is care is ze responsibility of ze Pari' _Ministere de la_ -"

"With all due respect, Mr. Martin, the boy is English born and bred. His family indicated their desire that he attend Hogwarts before their untimely deaths and I believe it is well within our rights to enforce the will of the deceased family members."

"Ah, but 'e 'as not attended your 'Ogwarts, 'as 'e? You 'ad ze chance, but 'e refused to attend your school. Beauxbatons will provide all necessary utilities and facilities for ze boy. We shall see 'im taken good care of. Madam Maxine 'as already agreed to take 'im despite 'is age. We will tailor a curriculum for 'im as need be; it is already in ze works."

As Albus watched, smugness quirked the corners of the Educational Minister's lips, broadening beneath his handlebar moustache as Albus’ deputy fumed silently before him. Minerva McGonagall pursed her lips, swept a hand distractedly through the fly-aways that had sprung from her bun, and struggled to maintain her composure. Before she could rekindle the argument, however, Albus stepped forward and his throat.

Neither Minerva nor Martin had noticed his entrance, so fiercely were they engaged in their verbal sparring. Albus' deputy immediately fell back to his side, turning towards Martin as though to provide a united front of reinforced strength.

Martin evidently felt the same as Minerva. His smirk fell into a downturned curve of dissatisfaction, his earlier confidence had disappeared with his gleeful expression. If Albus had visited personally then that meant the man had a significant interest in the matter. What Albus Dumbledore wanted, Albus Dumbledore usually got.

"Good evening, Mr. Martin," he said mildly. "It has been a while. I do hope you are well."

Albus allowed a small smile to draw across his lips as Martin nodded his head in frustrated assertion. The atmosphere of the room had been abruptly changed, shifting like the tipping decks of a wind-swept raft. Albus’ felt his smile widen as he cleared his throat, preparing to steady the decks. "Now, Mr. Martin, I couldn't help overhearing my deputy's evident distress at the situation. I apologise both to you and on her behalf if my staff appear somewhat adamant about acquiring the attendance of young Mr. Potter. The matter hits a little close to home, if you understand my meaning." Albus allowed another smile to touch his lips as Martin raised an eyebrow in confusion. "Lily and James Potter were friends and colleagues to many of our staff and student's families. You can understand the desire for us to resume our care of the young man."

"Resume?" Martin said incredulously. "Resume, ‘Eadmaster Dumbley-dore, would suggest you 'ad it once before and yet no more. As I am aware, Mr Potter declined your request when 'e first got 'is letter at age eleven." The man shook his head muttering a barely audible string of French that Albus discerned as, "Foolish to take the children so young" before he continued. "If 'e 'ad any desire to attend your institution, 'e would 'ave said as much and would ‘ave been your student for five years at zis point."

Albus nodded his head gravely. "Indeed, sir, he was reluctant to join our school at such an age. Perhaps your educational system has a more suitable approach; waiting until greater maturity to make such a life changing decision should perhaps be considered by our own system, I believe. However, as with many Muggleborn students, I believe Mr Potter's reluctance was fueled partially by disbelief as to the validity of our claim. I am aware that most Muggles do not believe in magic."

Not allowing the clearly attempting Martin to get a word in, Albus continued with barely a raising of his voice. "However, I also believe that after such a blatant display of talent, even Mr Potter himself could not deny it’s very existence. Yet regardless of this," he raised his voice ever so slightly once more, drowning out the protests the Frenchman had begun to voice. "I believe it is in both our best interests and that of Mr Potter to seek his opinion on the matter."

Both Minerva and Martin were silenced by the suggestion. Confused blinks ensued. The desires of the boy himself had apparently been overlooked in the heat of the moment. It was only after an extended pause that both gradually began nodding their heads in agreement, confusion slipping into awkward embarrassment as they realised they'd disregarded the primary linchpin in the matter. Harry, Albus knew, would ultimately make the decision, given that his Muggle family abjectly refused contribution to any matter concerning magic.

Martin was the first to recover his composure. "Shall we ask 'im, zen?"

Albus and Minerva nodded their agreement. Indeed, Harry's opinion should be taken into account before his future was redesigned for him. He hardly held the oblivious enthusiasm of an eleven year old, now, did he?

* * *

 

Passing into the foyer and entering a second room that branched off from the hall, Minerva followed Albus silently. She pointedly ignoring the infuriating man striding behind her, huffing beneath his breath in his bluster. Upon entering the room, their trio spread themselves out like a panel before the table and the boy seated silently behind it. The room was small and furnished just enough to take the edge off its starkness. A single vase adorned the centre of the simple plywood table alongside a plate of biscuits and a chilled cup of tea. Neither appeared touched.

 Slumped resignedly in his chair, face hidden as his chin tucked to his chest, the boy only indicated his awareness of their entrance by sinking visibly further into his seat. It was a pitiful display; did he expect fury from them? That he be scolded for his use of magic?

"Mr. Potter," Albus began. "Good afternoon. Or evening I suppose it is by this point." He smiled in friendly welcome, taking the lead in the conversation. It appeared that Martin unanimously agreed with Minerva that they cede his dominance in the matter. As the boy remained in his bowed state of silence, eyes hidden by his overlong bangs, Albus took a step forwards and leant forwards just slightly.

"Harry, do you remember me?"

At mention of his name, Harry flinched. He raised his head just enough to peer towards Albus' expectant and welcoming gaze but nothing more. Albus’ smile grew in what Minerva recognised as both a natural and calculated response as their eyes locked, and in most it would have appeared reassuring. Except that, for all of his intentions, attempting a friendly approach seemed to be having the opposite effect. Harry stared at him blankly and seemed none the more confident for their brief exchange. He exuded the wariness of cornered prey straining to maintain its composure in the face of its looming predator. Perhaps deducing the impression he presented, Harry dropped his gaze again. A faint mumble issued from his bowed head.

"What was that?" Albus asked gently.

Harry's voice rose only slightly, remaining a quiet whisper tinged with the curl of his accent. "I promise I won't do it again. I understand what I did was wrong and I won't let it happen again. It was stupid of me to -"

"Mr. Potter, we are not here to reprimand you.' Stepping forward, Minerva couldn't help but speak into the unspoken apology. Did the boy expect to be scolded for his actions? He could no more control them than a starving man could restrain himself before a banquet. The need to use the magic build exponentially with repression and, though not frequent, it was neither unusual that such incident's occurred. Minerva inched closer to the young man she hadn't seen for a whole six years as her discontent grew. The poor child, to raised in a non-magical household. How archaic. She had never felt comfortable with leaving him with his Muggle relatives. "It's understandable to have an often violent response when one is distressed or uncomfortable, particularly in a situation one deems inescapable. Mr. Potter, may I ask what induced such a response?"

The open-ended question was met with only silence in reply. Either Harry was too highly strung upon taught nerves to speak in reply or he deliberately chose not to. Albus patted Minerva's arm briefly, taking another step towards her side at the edge of the table. Not to be outdone, Martin followed their motion.

"Harry," Albus said, his voice as gentle as ever, "Professor McGonagall is quite correct. We are not here to scold or punish you for your actions. Quite the opposite. You should be congratulated on your ability to restrain your magic for so long. And such an impressive strength. I must say I am quite astounded." As Harry gave no response, Albus sighed. He was obviously not receptive to conversation. Minerva could almost see the switch flick in her Albus' head: to skip the small talk and dive straight into the thick of it.

So Albus did. "Harry, I believe you remember we have met before." His extended pause was met by only silence, though with its heightened extensiveness Harry finally offered an almost imperceptible nod. Albus nodded in reply, visibly satisfied by such a small victory. "Well, I realise I have already asked you, but I wish to revisit your acceptance. If you so desire, you may attend Hogwarts," and at a clearing of Martin's throat, "or the French equivalent, Beauxbatons, to undertake studies into the education of magical arts. The decision is entirely yours, but I would highly recommend formalising your studies. The school environment is also a wonderful experience for young magic-users. I feel it would be highly beneficial to your magical and…emotional state.'

Somewhere through the explanation Harry had raised his head to draw his gaze towards Albus head, peering at them through large, black-rimmed glasses. The eyes. Minerva could only stare for a moment. It was like looking into the past and seeing Lily, and she had to compose herself before she spoke carelessly to such an end. She felt as much as saw Albus smile as she did herself, though wasn't sure if he held the same touch of confusion as she. Blankness was all that met Albus' words. It was as though the suppressed fear that had met the possibility of reprimand had been wiped completely into oblivion.

Harry met each of his observer's eyes for a brief moment before cocking his head slightly. His voice was as quiet as before when he spoke. "You want me to attend your school? Even after I turned you down?"

Albus smile widened at his words. Minerva repressed an instinctive snort of amusement as he responded like a child who'd cast their first spell. "Indeed. Myself and Professor McGonagall both, alongside Mr. Martin, have reached the conclusion that this would be the best possible solution to your situation given that you have just experienced your first magical display. Would you consider attendance of a magical educational institutions?"

Harry dropped his gaze once more, returning his attention to the table before him. His lips moved in a mutter and Minerva thought she could hear the words "first magical display" in there somewhere. She could discern no more, however, and an uncomfortable silence followed the headmaster's invitation. Or it was uncomfortable for Minerva, at least, and likely Martin as well. Albus and Harry seemed content to ponder in static muteness. Finally, as Minerva was considering shifting to a seat at the table, Harry raised his gaze once more.

"Okay," he all but whispered. "What do I need to do?"

If Minerva had thought Albus’ previous smile could not have widened further, she would have been drastically wrong. He beamed like a preschooler - or for that matter a grandfather too - in a candy shop and clapped his hands in a delighted single applaud. "Very little, my boy, very little. You shall naturally need to equip yourself with your schooling necessities, and, most unconventionally for your age, your first wand. Perhaps, Minerva, you would see to his assistance?" Albus' question and raised eyebrow was met by Minerva's rapid nod of agreement. "I don't suppose he is aware of his inheritance, so you will likely require a stop at Gringotts along the way."

Satisfaction emanated from Albus, all but drowning out the uneasiness of the boy before them and dragging Minerva into its fiery current. She felt her own eagerness rise, for this was it. The second half of the paired Boys Who Lived - and more importantly, James and Lily's son - would finally be within their nurturing embrace. She  _was_ excited. Or at least, her excitement rose until its legs were abruptly cut from beneath it by a pointed clearing of the throat and an angry scowl from the education minister to her side. Minerva felt her face slip into a scowl. Damn it all, she'd forgotten about the insufferable man.

"Dumbley-dore, we 'ave yet to discuss ze institution of choice."

As though expecting Marin's interruption, Albus nodded. "Yes, yes. Harry, we indeed have yet to touch upon the topic Mr Martin deems of greatest importance." Leaning forward and resting his fingertips gently upon the table top, Albus ignored from Martin pinned to his back and beamed his warm smile once more upon Harry. He received as little response as he'd gotten for it so far.

"My own school, Hogwarts, is located in Scotland. I can assure you that it is equipped with the very best facilities and members of staff that the country can afford and I could not be prouder to offer my school as a home to you as you begin – or complete, as it may be – your formal studies." Leaning back slightly, Albus raised a hand to Martin, gesturing him forwards as he continued. "Beauxbatons is a noble establishment itself. Currently under the compassionate and highly regarded Heasmistress Madam Maxine, it rivals magical institutions across Europe, if not the entire world. Given your current residence, I am more than aware you may be more comfortable with this establishment, but -"

"Mr. Potter." Martin stepped forwards and similarly leaned upon the table as he interrupted Albus. Somehow, the stance breathed intimidation more than the warm welcomeness Albus was clearly attempting to convey, though it elicited much of the same lack of response in Harry. Sniffing pompously and fluffing his moustache, Martin tilted his chin and breathed deeply before beginning a speech likely rehearsed prior to the meeting. Minerva wouldn't know; she didn't understand a word of it. She'd never had an ear for French

Listening to the lilting drone, Minerva felt her hackles rise. It seemed horribly unfair; the man could be spouting any number of underhanded comments to entice Harry towards his institution. As much as this was  _Harry Potter,_ was rare enough to unearth such a deep and unexpected well of natural talent that Minerva would not see Martin above such methods. Glancing towards Albus sidelong, however, she was minutely consoled by his mild expression, the respectful smile upon his lips. It was as though he didn’t particularly care what Martin said. That, or he knew exactly what the man was saying and had confidence enough in his own powers of persuasion that it didn’t bother him. Likely the later, Minerva suspected. She was unsure of Albus' multilingual capabilities, but was almost certain he spoke at least half of the modern day existing languages.

Quickly dampening her ears to the string of fluent French, Minerva cringed internally as the speech continued to drone onwards. Harry gave no verbal response, simply gazing with blank-faced attention up at the orator. Finally, with a small smile and a satisfied nod of his head, Martin straightened and fixed Harry with an expectant gaze.

Albus huffed a sigh that sounded somehow amused yet lacking in any disrespect. Martin immediately snapped his attention towards him but before he could voice affront Albus was speaking. "Well, Harry, if you are as impressed by Mr Martin's speech as I then it would seem you have a difficult decision on your hands." He ignored the scowl that arose on Martin's face, smiling as though he assumed Harry would grin in like-minded humour.

Harry stared silently at the two men, eyes flickering between them. His expression remained as unreadable as ever, not even his gaze beneath his clear lenses gleaning an insight into any thoughts niggling beneath their surface. Minerva straightened her shoulders unconsciously, setting her jaw. Surely the boy wouldn't fall for the self-indulgent oration of the insufferable man beside her. Surely.

Finally, Harry dropped his gaze from his audience to the table in what was now an expected response. His fingers rose from his lap towards his collarbone, curling slightly into his skin as he finally breathed a reply. "I..."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Hope you are enjoying the story so far! Please leave a comment or any questions below. I'd love to hear from you to know your thoughts!


	3. A Welcome Distraction

Draco Malfoy was living through hell. He couldn't recall being more miserable in his entire life. The summer of his sixteenth year should have been entertained by the revels of youth, but not for him. Perhaps never for him again. For Draco, it had been -

 _No. No, don't think about that_. Inevitably, his mind made its way back to the horrifyingly terrifying events of the summer. His assignment, the meeting with Him, the scorching pain upon his forearm that even then seemed to burn with an eternally searing pain. His right hand slipped to his left forearm, fingers clamping over the scarred flesh that seemed unnaturally warm even through layers of clothing and thick bandage.

_Don't think about it. Don't think about... Don't think..._

Kings Cross Station was abuzz with activity, even on - or perhaps because it was - the weekend. Draco wove through the masses of Muggles, seeking the distant signs of platforms nine and ten. He knew it was likely a figment of his imagination, a prejudice enforced upon him from an early age, but the mulling mass of Muggles seemed to reek with a heavy odour that caused him to scrunch his nose for relief. Merlin, how did Mudbloods and halfbloods stand living with them? He almost felt sorry for them.

Finally sinking through the gateway onto platform nine-and-three-quarters, Draco set off immediately to the train idling sleepily alongside the platform. He glanced only briely behind him to ensure that the house elf dragging his trunk followed his lead, barely acknowledging his stone-faced parents that similarly trailed behind him. With a flick of his wrist, a nod of his head, Draco sent the house elf scurrying aboard to deposit his trunk in his usual cabin before turning back to his silent parents.

Volumes were spoken wordlessly amongst them. To an outside observer, they would likely never perceive them as being ‘close-knit’, yet what did they know? Certainly nothing of the love and suppressed affection felt by the three members of the Malfoy family. That love was always hidden beneath the veils of formality. Draco swallowed unobtrusively - for it was always best to be unobtrusive in any expression of unease - and opened his mouth to break the tension. Only to have himself cut off abruptly by his mother's slender arm sliding around his neck and drawing his face down to her shoulder.

At any other time, in any other year, Draco would have hissed and spat like a cat thrown into water at the unexpected gesture. Not this year, though. With the events of the holiday break hanging over his head as an unshakeable reminder, he could only sink into her shoulder and awkwardly return the embrace.

Narcissa's lips brushed his ear and tickled skin as she spoke. "Be safe, my son. Do what you must, but remember, no matter what, it is _your safety_ that is of the greatest importance."

Draco stood in a lull of immobility as his mother withdrew from her swift embrace. The ice-queen had never been as rigid and lacking in affection as the public eye painted her, but she was rarely the visibly doting mother. The faint glassiness in her eyes, apparent as Draco took half a step backwards, took his breath away. He couldn't reply, couldn't even nod, and was only shaken from his focus when Lucius placed a thin, long-fingered hand upon his shoulder. Shifting his attention to his father, Draco nearly flinched from the similarly glassiness in his eyes. His father made his mother look like a school girl in the bloom of her exaggerated enthusiasm for all of the expression always let himself present, yet here, on the platform awaiting departure to his sixth year of school, Draco's father was nearly in tears and touching his shoulder in a gesture of reassurance for the first time in over a decade.

The world was indeed turned upon its head.

Draco didn't know if Lucius would have voiced his own comment had they been left to their isolation. Within moments of their house elf returning and sinking into his parent's shadows, however, a voice called from over his shoulder. It would have sounded nonchalant, even unkind, had Draco not been familiar enough with Blaise Zabini's facade to hear the tinge of friendliness beneath the cold surface.

"Draco. Do you finally grace the petty hordes with your presence?"

Turning his gaze to his tall friend as Blaise rapidly approached, Draco affixed his expression into a similar guise of careful nonchalance. "Really, Blaise, if the sight of your own disappearing house elf is any indication, you arrived barely moments before I did."

Blaise's mouth quirked in a handsome smile that would - and did - turn the faces of many a passer-by. He bowed his head respectfully towards Draco’s parents as he approached. "Mr. Malfoy, Mrs. Malfoy. I trust you had a pleasant summer."

For their part, Lucius and Narcissa readily adopted their public masks. Both plastered cool, thin smiles upon their faces and exchanged sidelong glances as though sharing a secret only they knew. Lucius stepped forwards and gently clasped Blaise's hand, shaking it briefly. "Well enough, Blaise. And yourself?

"Absolutely splendid, Mr. Malfoy. Thank you for asking."

Lucius' lips curled in genuine yet muted amusement that he quickly suppressed a second after it showed itself. Glancing back towards Draco, he nodded his head once more before turning and marching towards the gateway from the platform.

Narcissa, perhaps unable to depart with such coldness even under pretense, briefly touched Draco on the shoulder once more. She gave a poor attempt at a warm smile before trailing after her husband. Both straight-backed figures disappeared rapidly into the mulling crowds in seconds.

"Wow, they seem happy. Something wrong?"

Draco snorted at Blaise's words, intentionally adopting an irritated expression at his parent's 'coldness'. "Is anything ever right in my family, Blaise?"

Blaise chuckled. "True. Is anything ever right in either of our families?"

"True."

They shared a bubble of mild amusement, briefly bumping shoulders in a display that Draco acknowledged would barely be deemed the intimacy of close friends by most people. Then, to the sound of a whistle sharply blown, they turned and followed the flood of passengers towards the train.

* * *

Draco and Blaise shared their usual reunion with Pansy, Crabbe, Goyle and Nott mid-carriage as the train begun its rapid retreat from the platform. Their small party acknowledged one another with offhanded small talk, completely impersonal, yet the simple act of being with one another was a confidence boost great enough to enable a ready adoption of the arrogant, domineering attitude for which they were so famed. Since fourth year Crabbe, Goyle and Nott rarely mixed with their housemates in private, the former two disregarding the need for company other than each others and Nott being more comfortable with the Ravenclaws than Slytherins. But even so, the show must go on, and especially before the other Houses. Even more so in such troubled times. Simply the presence of greater numbers Draco felt eased the tension thrumming through him  exponentially.

Striding with renewed entitlement down the length of the train, Draco followed behind Blaise as they made for their customary cabin. The seats were as good as reserved for them after five years of repeated reclaiming. Stepping into the 'Slytherin' carriage was like falling into a comforting embrace, though without something so unnecessary as an ‘embrace’. Each Slytherin-filled cabin they passed nodded their heads in detached welcome, yet the facade of indifference was easily overlooked by those accustomed to the adopted aloofness. Friendliness, satisfaction, welcome, and even affection swirled just beneath the surface.

Their cabin was positioned at the very rear of the train, as far from the engine as possible. Blaise led their party with swaggering ease, chattering inanely over his shoulder as he strode towards their seats.

"... that I didn't _want_ a signed copy, even if it was more prestigious," he said with a dramatic sigh. "I hardly give a damn who the author is. I've never heard of him and I can't fathom the need to obtain an autographed copy if I don't - what the fuck?"

Draco nearly walked into Blaise's back as he abruptly stalled in the doorway to their cabin. Scowling with genuine rather than feigned irritation this time, he elbowed his friend aside and drew his gaze towards scanning for exactly what had triggered the cuss, and -

"What the fuck?"

Their cabin was occupied. Not full, certainly, but the slight figure leaning with elbow propped on the window sill was definitely in Draco's personal seat. A girl, short and slight, with a thick mane of dark hair hanging just past her shoulders, sat swimming in a knitted grey jumper that covered her hands and jeans to mid-thigh. A single, pale finger stroked along the protruding spine of a small cat curled in her lap, tugging gently at the black fur in a detached motion. As first Blaise then Draco swore their indignation, the girl turned a pale, thin face towards the intruding Slytherins and -

Oh. Not a girl but a boy. An understandable mistake, perhaps, given his overlarge sweater and diminutive size, but still somewhat embarrassing. However, whether he was a boy or a girl made little difference. Draco sighed his vexation, rubbing his forehead to massage the frown from his brow. He was too young to get wrinkles.

Stepping forwards, he adorned his guise of sneering, righteous entitlement and peered down his nose at the boy. Or girl. Draco was damned if he knew, for the person could have been either or neither for all he cared. Maybe they were a girl? "What are you doing?"

The girl peered up at him through her dark fringe. Thick, black-rimmed glasses adorned a straight nose, her thin, angular features making her seem like a child dressed in their parent’s clothing. Silence ensued awkwardly, made more awkward by the complete lack of cow the girl demonstrated with the blankness of her face.

"What do you mean?" She said in a softly accented voice. No, he. He was probably a he.

Draco frowned. "Are you stupid or just being provocative? Every student on this train is aware this cabin is taken." He didn't recognise the boy, but it was obvious, even with the lack of recognition, that the boy was from the younger years. He was short, small, possibly a third or fourth year if Draco was to hazard a guess. That he wasn't Slytherin was both remarkable and equally apparent; no Slytherin would sit in _their_ seats, yet none that were not Slytherin would venture into the end carriage. Perhaps the boy was simply daft? Perhaps blissfully lost?  
  
The boy cocked his head, the only indication that he questioned Draco's statement. "Oh? I wasn't aware that the train had reservations. My mistake. Don't trouble yourself, I'll move."  
  
Draco nearly rocked back on his heels at the words. _Don't trouble yourself._ The presumptuousness to assume that he _would?_ Where did such nerve arise from? Had the kid really expected them to find alternate seating themselves? Not even a child would be oblivious to the open aggression both Draco and his housemates emanated like a vicious cloud.  
  
Finding himself at a loss for response, Draco was hence unprepared for when the boy abruptly stood and approached the door. He barely reached Draco's chin yet somehow seemed taller with his marked indifference to both Draco's chagrin and Blaise's continued and increasingly baffled indignation. Peering through the strands of his bangs, Draco met the boy's eyes only briefly before he dropped his chin.  
  
"Excuse me, please," he murmured, nearly inaudibly.  
  
Almost without meaning to, Draco shifted, stepping to the side to allow the boy passage. Shifting the black cat to his shoulder, the kid slipped from the cabin and made his way down the carriage, sinking into the deeper reaches of the train. The Slytherins stared in muted disgruntlement and more than a little confusion as the anonymous boy retreated.  
  
For himself, Draco found his eyes drawn like a magnet to the cat crouching on the boy's shoulder, eyes softly glowing. The lambent green was eerily similar to the boy's own yet somehow held more emotion than the blank flatness of its human's. Perhaps it was a figment of his imagination, a projection of human eyes onto the creature, but the cat's gaze seemed to glitter with amusement at Draco's expense. He and his friends watched in frozen silence until the pair were finally swallowed by the distancing carriages.

* * *

The train trip to Hogwarts was predictably boring, though the carriage ride presented its own trial as Draco was exposed for the first time to the skeletal, winged horses that carted the students to the school. He paused only briefly, closing his eyes in an attempt to compose himself, before clambering with as much elegance as one could muster into the sturdy carriages. At that moment, he was grounded in his understanding all the more; it truly had been a trialing summer.  
  
Dinner held the same monotonous boredom with such predictability that Draco feared for his sanity at the lack of external stimulation the coming year presented. Not that he didn’t have enough to occupy his mind, but a distraction would have been nice. The matted old Sorting Hat nattered an ignorant spiel of the need for the school houses to unite to face the 'encroaching darkness to come', but it was nothing that hadn't been voiced before if not in as many words. In fact, the only notable point of the evening until the welcome arrival of chocolate trifle for dessert was the non-attendance of Professor McGonagall. Draco exchanged a raised eyebrow with Blaise at her notable absence, like-minded query conveyed wordlessly between them, before he shrugged the abnormality off as Unknowable. Perhaps the old bird had retired? Snape would be thrilled.  
  
At the conclusion of the dinner, however, before the headmaster wished them all a good night and good luck for the year to come, the true surprise was thrust upon the unsuspecting student body.  
  
"I hope you all enjoyed the delightful menu supplied by our esteemed chefs of the kitchens," Dumbledore began. Draco couldn't suppress a roll of his eyes at the statement, at the sincerity of the old man’s smile, but refrained from commenting to any of his friends. "Before I bid you leave to seek the comfort of your beds, and for the first years to become acquainted with your new dorms, I have a rather delicate announcement to make. Professor McGonagall, if you would."  
  
As one, the students turned their gaze to the unobtrusive side door to the right of the staff table. Many rose slightly in their seats to obtain heightened view of the anomaly that approached. The head of Gryffindor house strode purposefully towards to podium behind which the headmaster stood, chin held high in a display of confidence that entirely undermined her attempt. Yet no one, not even Draco, spared her more than a glance as all eyes were fixed upon the second figure that trailed in her wake.  
  
The girl - boy, the _boy_ \- had apparently deemed the situation formal enough to change himself from his shapeless jumper and jeans that showed about as much fashion sense as a house elf's pillow case. Although, Draco considered, he didn't look much more distinctive in his school robes either. He hadn't taken the liberty of addressing the issue of his hair, however, which masked most of his face and curled like an ever-growing vine around the rims of his glasses where it didn't hang to his shoulders.  
  
Curiosity buzzed throughout the hall as students stared and murmured exchanges. Draco himself found his interest piqued, not the least triggered by his continued disgruntlement for their brief exchange. He felt somehow slighted, beaten even, by the indifference presented to him, and felt it his due to re-establish himself as the loathsome yet largely respected sixth year prefect that he was. His focus was so consuming that he was barely aware of Blaise's indignant not-quite-whispers in his ear as to the boy's familiarity.  
  
"This, my dear students, is Harry Potter. Until recently, he has been living with distant family, yet due to circumstances has decided to attend Hogwarts to complete the final two years of his tutelage." Dumbledore beamed like a proud parent as he dropped his announcement upon his unsuspecting students. "Given the nature of his belated attendance, we will refrain from sorting him into a house unless deemed necessary. Professor McGonagall has taken it upon herself to address the basics of magical theory with him, but despite his exceptional progression, Mr Potter may still be in need of assistance where necessary."  
  
Dumbledore's comment, even aside from the merry twinkle in his eye, seemed to be deliberately provocative to Draco's ears. He would hardly have stood for the slight and glanced expectantly towards the Potter boy. Something akin to disappointment rose within him at the boy's complete lack of concern. Or any expression, for that matter. Was he not going to say anything at all?  
  
Dumbledore appeared to reach the same conclusion for the boy's silence more rapidly for he continued with barely a moment's pause. "I am sure you are all familiar with the relative lack of transfer students our school receives, so let this be an experience for us all. It would be most agreeable should his fellow sixth years to welcome him and offer any assistance he may require. I would ask that our upstanding students assist me in the standards of this school in..."  
  
The rest of Dumbledore’s speech jumbled incomprehensibly in Draco's ear. He blinked, staring. Sixth year? The boy as the same age as him? That was...unexpected. Draco found himself reassessing the new student with different eyes. What a strange scenario. And the name too. Harry Potter was... it rung a bell faintly on the edges of his understanding. Something about...something that happened with his family, years ago. Something to do with Longbottom? 

The familiar distaste as Draco considered his year mate who was, by and large, his greatest rival at school was oddly overlaid by the curiosity before him. The Potter boy definitely had a connection to Dumbledore’s Golden Boy, but Draco couldn't quite discern what. He didn't truly wish to dwell on the topic either. Thinking of the Boy-Who-Lived triggered unwanted dwelling on a certain Dark Lord that Draco had done his best to avoid thinking of since he'd left Kings Cross. Or failed to avoid thinking of. Closing his eyes briefly, Draco turned his attention back to the podium to catch the end of Dumbledore's speech.  
  
"...and I'm sure it would be most satisfying. If you would all make him feel welcome." A short but surprisingly enthusiastic applause caused Draco to snort as he observed his fellow students with chin propped in his palm, his other hand tapping his irritation into the wooden table in a broken rhythm. With his attention half focused, he had gleaned little more than that the boy was from France or some such and had been attending Muggle school of all things rather than Beauxbatons. The Headmaster had seemed to speak an awful lot without truly saying anything at all.

He continued as the applause died. "Now, Mr Potter, I wonder, would you like to say a few words of introduction to your peers?"  
  
As one, every student sat straighter in their seats, peering to the front of the room in anticipation. To his horror, Draco found himself attempting to similarly peer around the eagerly bobbing heads. He quickly dropped his chin back into his palm once more as soon as he realised what he was doing.  
  
Potter stared blankly at Dumbledore for a moment before stepping to his side. He was barely visible behind the podium for a moment until his abrupt elevation to nearly the same height as the headmaster to his left. Who knew the grand podium of the Hogwarts Great Hall podium included a step for undergrown novelties?  
  
Peering out at the sea of students before him, the boy - for he was still a boy, regardless of the old man's declaration of his age - paused for a moment as though playing to crowd. Then, opening his mouth he took an inaudible breath. "Thank you, Headmaster, but I think you’ve said just about _everything_ that could possibly be said on the subject."  
  
It was a blank, monotonous statement, as blank and monotonous as his expression. Only the faint emphasis on ‘everything’ broke the dullness of words coloured unerringly grey despite his lilting accent. A moment later and Potter had slipped silently back from the podium and resumed his place beside McGonagall, barely a nod afforded to the headmaster left in his wake. McGonagall herself displayed the rapid progression of every individual in the hall: eagerness, bewilderment, disappointed, and finally bemusement. That was, every audience member except Draco Malfoy.  
  
Before he could contain himself, a bark of laughter erupted from his mouth. Perhaps it was due to the build-up of tension that had gradually weighted his shoulders over the past weeks, but for some reason Draco found the response impossibly amusing. Staring at Potter where he stood at the head of the hall, he somehow got the impression that the new student was similarly amused, had perhaps even deliberately shattered the growing climax like a house of cards flicked before the final piece could be placed. Though expressionless as he had been since Draco had first laid eyes on him, he couldn’t held but wonder.

Besides, what had they all expected? Some grand speech, elaborately choreographed and eloquently recognising the so-called ‘welcome’ of his new classmates? Draco's mirth could not even be contained when almost every face in the hall turned towards him, ranging from curious to irate to openly hostile. Even prressing his lips firmly together and slipping a hand over his mouth in a very un-Malfoy-like gesture could not contain the amusement that hardly seemed relevant anymore. It wasn't even that funny. Draco's shoulders shook with his failed attempt at composure. How long since he had laughed at anything, even something so simple as an unexpected - and likely unintentional - bad joke? For truly, he couldn't perceive just what he found so amusing.  
  
It was with utter confusion, then, that through the silence punctuated only by his own feeble attempts to stem his laughter, a similarly unrestrained bubble of mirth rose from another student. Pausing himself briefly mid chuckle, Draco just managed to glimpse the dirty-blond head of hair and face reddened by suppressed laughter before Longbottom effectively buried his head in the folds of his arms. How surprising. Who knew they shared the same irrational taste in humour? Draco couldn’t even bring himself to be disgruntled by the fact.  
  
The unlikeliness of their similar tastes did more to ease the tension in the room than the laughter itself. A smattering of giggles and bursts of laughter dotted the hall as chatter finally ensued. Draco had finally composed himself enough to fulfill his role as a prefect when, as one, every student rose to their feet and moved in exaggerated slowness towards to door. Glancing over his shoulder to catch a final glimpse of Potter, Draco thought he could just make out the ghost of a smile touching the edges of the boy's lips before he was ushered through the staff side door and disappeared.

The two instances Draco had happened upon the curiosity that was the New Boy had left him with entirely different impressions. It was a study. Perhaps Hogwarts could provide him with just the right distraction he needed from the mess his life was rapidly evolving into?


	4. Tentative Beginnings

Harry's first week at Hogwarts passed in a blur of confusion. It seemed so surreal, that so much could change over such a small, chance event. So small, barely notable and blown far out of proportion in his own head, but an incident that had caused his magic to explode nonetheless. He still didn’t know why; McGonagall believed it a result of magical backlog of sorts and Harry could only agree with her. He knew no better. Yet even explained, when he compared his situation to that he had held barely four months before… it left him astounded, the unfolding of such a profound butterfly effect.  

The brief months over the summer, in which he had resided at a Wizarding hotel of sorts called the ‘Leaky Cauldron’, Harry had been largely left to himself save for visits of the Deputy Headmistress to attempt to teach him magic. Otherwise, he had largely lost himself in books of magical theory, drinking up the knowledge that seemed to impossible and attempting to incorporate it into his understanding of reality. How quickly those weeks had passed. It seemed but days before he was alighting onto the Hogwarts Express and travelling to a school of magic – a school that _taught magic!_ – and struggling to make heads or tails of what could have been another planet for all of its familiarity.  

Following the suggestion of McGonagall, Harry attended as many classes as he could in an attempt to determine the appeal of each. To ‘get a feel for what he felt most interested in’, she had said, though from the descriptive outline she had promotion of each Harry was left with a rather confronting impression of what the Deputy Headmistress deemed ‘interesting’. It was overwhelming, to say the least. Despite having an admittedly haphazard crash course in magical arts over the summer, he would be the first to admit he was out of his depth.  
  
At the additional suggestion of McGonagall, he kept largely to himself. The Gryffindor Head of House sternly instructed the entire sixth year cohort to leave him to his observations, at least for the first week, before attempting to assault him with their ‘friendliness’. For some of the students, suppressing their curiosity was an obvious strain, but Harry found himself grateful to be granted a reprieve from persistent buzz of questions. One step at a time, and beginning classes was his first of several anticipated giant leaps. He focused instead upon the words of the teachers themselves. Which he understood only in bits and pieces anyway.  
  
He was eternally grateful, then, that the Headmaster had allocated him living quarters were situated away from his fellow students. The rooms belonged to a one Professor Featherwood, who had apparently declined attendance at the school some years ago but had maintained he would one day return to 'renew the teachings of Naturalist Magic'. A tidy suite, with a starkness that Harry had assumed was simply an expression of the absent wizards taste that mirrored his uncle Stephen's until McGonagall informed him otherwise. Apparently the house elves – the maintenance body of the school – had stripped it bare purposely to allow him to rearrange and decorate as desired.  A week gone by and it remained as impersonal as when he had first entered. He found he preferred it that way; it afforded some familiarity that, though not to his personal liking, removed him from the mind-boggling novelty of the castle itself.  
  
For the castle was a maze of the unexpected. Talking portraits and gushing ghosts attempted to engage him in conversations at every turn. After happening across several of the latter, he’d had something of an existential crisis upon learning just exactly _what they were_ – it was a realisation he expected would leave him long in recovery. A rabbit warren of passageways led to dead ends as often as not, and floating candles that lit themselves as a student neared. The architecture of the building itself would have left any medieval historian gasping in wonder, and not only because of the frequency it seemed to spontaneously change. It was all more than a little ground breaking and Harry was thankful for the barely traceable – and similarly ever-changing – map that the headmaster provided him with alongside a fond smile and wish of good luck.  
  
By the second week, he had acquainted himself enough with the layout of the building to find himself lost only half of the time. After an extensive one-on-one with the headmaster – naturally interrupted by McGonagall – he had tentatively received a timetable of subjects and classes to attend. The two professors were adamant in assuring him that he was welcome to change his decisions if he found them to be other than that which he desired to study.  
  
In accordance with N.E.W.T level studies, his timetable consisted of seven subjects that would have left him stunned in disbelief had he viewed the schedule six months prior; Defence Against the Dark Arts, Potions, Transfiguration, Herbology, Care of Magical Creature, History of Magic and Charms. From what he could gauge from McGonagall's spiel, such subjects were basically core units undertaken by most students from their early years at school. It was common for students to take eight subjects, as 'one can never gain too much knowledge', but Harry agreed with her when she informed him that leaving himself some room for private study with teachers - as he still had much of the basics to learn - would be at least one subject in itself.  
  
Thus, following the meeting that seemed to take up an inordinate amount of time to discuss very little, Harry found himself trailing behind McGonagall as they headed to Transfiguration midway through the morning. Harry unconsciously kicked the hem of his robe with every step, an irritation that was remarkably difficult to overlook. It was such an unnecessary hindrance.  
  
McGonagall swept into her classroom like a gale of practiced composure, striding towards the wide desk at the front of the room weighed beneath a number of seemingly random trays and vases before turning to face her pupils. 'Good morning, class' was met by a drone of disjointed 'good morning, Professor's that barely a handful of students participated in. The professor nodded curtly to the few who had voiced their greeting before gesturing towards Harry left awkwardly in the doorway.  
  
'Alright, class, I would like you to welcome Mr Potter to your ranks. From this day forward, he shall be attending your lessons with you on a scheduled basis. Please make him feel welcome.'  
  
As one, the entire classroom turned towards the doorway. Harry shoved aside the admittedly anticipated shiver of anxiety and stepped forward with McGonagall's gesture. The stern-faced woman gave a poor attempt at a comforting smile. Turning towards the front row of seats, she directed a question at a student. 'Miss Granger, perhaps you would be able to see to assisting Mr Potter if he requires?'  
  
A bushy brown-haired girl towards the front of the classroom straightened even more in her already ramrod posture, beaming in positive ecstasy as Harry walked with hesitant steps down the aisle, sidling between rows of cluttered tables. He recognised her as an ace of the class, frequently the first to ask for clarification and likely the first to complete her assigned tasks. A pleaser or ‘teacher-pet’ as his old classmates used to say. He should know; the term had been directed to him more times than he had bothered to count, though it was rarely warranted. That probably explained at least in part the good humour brightened her face. Or perhaps she was just one of those people who liked to share knowledge and help those who 'struggled' more than she.  
  
Either way, it was with relief that Harry sank into the empty chair beside her and caught a glimpse of her handwritten notes. One glance was more than enough to suggest she was a well of knowledge that would readily offer assistance if necessary. Perfect legibility, in incredible detail, the brief glimpse from his periphery showed that even after only a week of schooling the girl's stack of used parchments sat nearly twice as high as anyone else's. She was obviously a passionate studier; Harry only hoped, with a twinge of guilt at his own disgruntlement, that such dedication did not manifest in pompous, know-it-all speeches.  
  
'Alright class, if you could please turn to page eighteen of your books, I would like you to read the successive pages on Transfiguration of a solid into a liquid. This is an extension of the work you completed after your O.W.Ls at the end of last year, but I feel it necessary to revisit to refresh your memories.'  
  
The flipping of paper sounded throughout the room as books were opened and pages turned. Heads bowed briefly before rising again as the professor continued speaking.  
  
'Now, though we touched briefly on the wand action used for heated objects, it is slightly different for colder solids as it requires slightly more push for the transfiguration. If you would recall,' at this, McGonagall drew her wand from her sleeve in practiced fluidity, 'a single clockwise rotation of a spiral followed by a horizontal slash to the left is applied for heated objects. For cooler items, an additional second flick of the wrist is necessary. The drop of the second flick increases in depth with each distinct decrease in temperature. This provides more force to the projection of the transfiguration magic.'  
  
Clearing her throat loudly, McGonagall turned towards one of the glass vases that stood in a shallow tray upon her desk, one Harry had largely overlooked given it’s apparent irrelevance to the class. Sister trays and their accompanying vases lined the desk militaristically behind the front pair.  Stretching her arm out straight, the stern-faced professor cast a wide, elaborate spiral, followed by a slash and flick to the accompanying phrase _'Liquesciumus'_. Before the attentive gazes of the class, the vase melted with oozing slowness, dripping melted glass that morphed steadily into a watery liquid and a final ripple into the tub. A murmur of approval sounded throughout the room, followed by the repeated rustle of pages and heads bowed once more over books.  
  
Harry stared fixedly at the tray and the 'transfigured' vase, head tilted as he considered the magical display. He had been exposed to too much abnormality over the past few weeks to be even remotely surprised at the apparently impossible act. And yet, instead of the fascinated acceptance of the reality he was prone to falling into, Harry's mind was turned instead to measured scepticism.  
  
Was that truly even transfiguration? Personally, it appeared more as though the glass had just melted. As though extreme heat had been applied to the solid vase to morph its shape. Was it melted glass in the tray, or had the professor actually transfigured the vase into water? And what relevance exactly did the elaborate hand gestures have to melting a vase into liquid glass or water? It seemed rather excessive to him. The thought was so persistent, _loud_ , that he wondered that he hadn’t contemplated it at previously under McGonagall’s brief tutelage.  
  
As though privy to his internal monologue of questions, McGonagall turned towards him and raised a questioning eyebrow.  
  
'Potter, is there something in the reading you do not understand?'  
  
Harry dropped his gaze briefly towards the closed book on his desk before raising lifting it sheepishly. He kept his voice even quieter than usual as he replied 'no, Professor.'  
  
'Then I suggest you continue with your reading.'  
  
'I've already read the book, Professor.' Harry was only partially aware of the enthusiastic smile that turned towards him from the girl - Granger - beside him. 'I was just curious...'  
  
The professor, her face lighting in an expression of mixed surprise and approval, stepped towards his desk. 'Curious? Is there perhaps an element of the text you did not understand?'  
  
Harry shook his head. 'No, it made as much sense as I guess I expected it to. I was more curious about...what you just showed us.'  
  
'Oh?'  
  
Dropping his gaze towards the desk in an attempt to avoid her penetrating stare, Harry took a swallow before continuing. 'It just occurred to me - though perhaps it's because I wasn't really tutored through that absolute basics until recently - that I don't really understand the function of the wand movement. I mean,' he waved his hand in a muted mimic of the motion McGonagall had exemplified, 'I don't understand how such a motion assists the magic. From what I gathered, it is primarily the vocalisation that initiates the act, though even that isn't entirely needed, is it? So, why the...' He made another spiral and horizontal slash of his finger to punctuate his words.  
  
Even before he had finished, Harry felt the amused stares boring into his back, heard the faint ripple of chuckles and a 'what the hell, why would you even have to ask?' The potentially cutting remarks, however, fazed him about as much as a rather persistent breeze. Experience had left him rather resilient to such comments. Ignoring the increasing volume of his classmates, he tilted his head upwards slightly, peering through hid fringe, and met McGonagall's gaze once more.  
  
The professor had adopted an expression of mild exasperation that she was attempting to mask with respectful consideration. 'You are quite welcome to ask any questions you feel would be beneficial to your learning. Perhaps your peers would be able to answer?' Casting a predatory glance around the room, McGonagall effectively shifted the attention from her newest pupil.  
Without request the class fired a flurry of replies.  
  
'Well, you just do.'  
  
'It has something to do with the wand action mirroring the shape of the words-'  
  
'The magic just wouldn't work as well if there wasn't any wand-waving-'  
  
'Professor Trelawney says that it's all about the action embodying the essence of the phrase-'  
  
‘It’s best if you just-’ ‘I always thought it helped-’ 'Silence!'  
  
The exasperation on McGonagall's face thrust its focus upon the class as an entirety. A sigh preceded her words. 'It appears we all need a quick revision of rudimentary magical theory. Is there anyone confident in their response who is not swayed by simple subjective opinion?'  
  
The class shifted uncomfortably under the professor's dissatisfied glare in a squeak of chairs. All except Granger, seated next to Harry, who raised her hand with an apologetic shrug to her fellow students.  McGonagall failed entirely to suppress the sigh of relief that someone – _anyone_ – had deigned to reply. ‘Miss Granger?'  
  
'Well, it's all about focus, really. Though studies have shown that the wand action in and of itself has little to no power over the strength of the spell, the connotations of each wand action instead plant the theory in the mind of the caster, enhancing the chance of the end result being seen as a possibility. This is similar in terms of the enchantment. It is also why witches and wizards of greater skill and practice no longer require the use of wand action or verbalisation. Their focus is so well-honed that such elements previously deemed necessary for conduct of the spell are no longer required.'  
  
The professor nodded approvingly at the textbook recitation. 'Thank you, Granger. I believe that, if nothing else, we have all learnt something new today. Potter, I hope this answered your question.'  
  
Harry dropped his eyes back to the table to avoid her attention once more. 'I suppose, it does a fairly good job, but...'  
  
'But?'  
  
A curious edge lined the comment. Harry couldn't discern whether it was irritation or confusion. It hardly mattered; she clearly did not wish for a continuation of the opportunity to embarrass her class.  
  
'Nothing, Professor.'  
  
'Potter, answer me please.'  
  
Great. Now she was angry at his avoidance of her attempts to 'help' him learn. Gritting his teeth, he decided to cast aside the veil of playing it safe and plough on.  
  
'Well, um...' he glanced through his eyelashes towards Granger beside him, 'you said it was all about focus. That casting a spell with the addition of wand movement and words helps the caster to visualise the outcome more successfully?' The girl nodded in agreement, her brows creased in curiosity at where the statement was leading. 'I just wondered, what if it has the opposite effect?'  
  
McGonagall's brows creased in similar confusion to the pupil directly before her. Harry felt that their trio had fallen into their own dimension momentarily, fellow students completely forgotten. 'You find it distracting.'  
  
‘Yes, Professor.’  
  
The professor's response to his statement held as much elegance as a gold fish, opening and closing her mouth in a comic rendition. Wiping her hands down her robes, smoothing creases in an obvious attempt to regain her composure, she peered once more at Harry with a confusing expression. Puzzlement? It looked something akin to hunger.  
  
'Would you care to demonstrate just exactly what you mean?'  
  
Harry hastily shook his head. His nervous reply was almost a whisper. 'No thank you, Professor, I feel I have already used my quota of class disruption for the day.'  
  
'Potter, do not push me. Come, I know you are not at the same experience level as your fellow pupils, but please. If you would, could you demonstrate what you mean with a spell?'  
  
'A spell?'  
  
'Certainly. You say you find it distracting. If you would, please give me a demonstration, then, of exactly how you would cast a spell if freed from such distractions.'  
  
Mentally kicking himself for his forwardness, Harry slid from the end of the pew-like chair. A brief, unexpected touch on his arm indicated the bushy-haired girl's attempt at offering support, though it provided anything but. His skin tingled uncomfortably under the pressure and he had to fight the urge to flinch from the – don’t _. Don’t touch!_ It was harder than he expected. Refusing to glance at the class, he stepped up beside the teacher, facing the table of glassware and trays.  
  
'Sorry in advance if I do something wrong.’ He spoke under his breath, for McGonagall’s ears only. ‘Or, more likely, if absolutely nothing happens and I've wasted your time.'  
  
The unnerving expression the professor wore on her face broke suddenly into a small smile. 'How many times have you said as much to me in the past months, Potter? I am a teacher; I can't condone holding back for fear of failure.'  
  
Dropping his chin in acceptance, Harry nodded slightly before taking a deep breath and focusing upon the vase. Raising his right hand, he placed his index finger upon the cool glass. For it _was_ cool; cooler than expected. As cool as, say, a tray filled with chilled water. Casting aside the faint shifting of students in the seats, the customary tapping of shoes, squeaking seats and smattering of sniffles, he trained his gaze solely upon the glass. All was silent until the fuzzy brown-haired girl at the front of the room abruptly scraped her seat back from her desk and rose to her feet.  
  
'Oh, Harry, you left your wand on the desk...'  
  
The girl's eyes widened. Throughout the room mouths swung open and gasps resounded in a chorus. The professor at Harry's side was similarly speechless. Spellbound as it were.  
  
'How did you...?'  
  
In the tray, pooling in concentric ripples, was an inch of clear liquid.  


* * *

 

Draco Malfoy was irritated. Not the mild irritation experienced by students easing themselves back into schooling routine. No, Draco's irritation manifested more like a heart-felt and overwhelming frustration, the cause of which being a certain magical cabinet located in a hidden room of miscellaneous and admittedly useless junk. Draco had spent as much time in the Room of Requirement as he had attending his studies and the result of his continued attempts had left him with one, overwhelming conclusion: he was a lost cause.  
No matter how hard he stared at the antique cabinet, fiddling with it's magical essence and twisting the frayed edges of it's continuity in an attempt to reverse the destruction wreaked upon it, he was no closer to finding a solution than he had been before he had laid eyes on the thing. Further, even, as he actually confronted the dawning realisation of the exclusive assignment’s impossibility.  
  
Melancholy seemed to tinge every aspect of his day. _I'm dead, I'm a dead man. I have sentenced my mother and father to their execution alongside me, and there is nothing I can do about it._  
  
Clutching at the heavy sleeve of his left arm, Draco fought back tears on in the darkness of the cluttered room. For the first time in years, an emotion other than anger or disgust actually threatened to overwhelm him. He did not consider himself a weak person by any standard, yet the helplessness of his situation seemed to crave an outlet in the form of useless dribbles erupting from his eyes. The Slytherin thanked whatever creator of Hogwarts had thought of embedding the Room of Requirement into the depths of the school for the solitude it provided. His pathetically miserable response would have been made infinitely less tolerable had he had an audience.  
  
Seeking enjoyment, or even a distraction, through his studies was about as successful as his attempts to fix the broken cabinet. He struggled to read his textbook with disinterested eyes, words jumbling into a dark, illegible mass that had him thrusting whichever volume weighed in his lap away in bubbling frustration.  Talking to his friends left him in a melancholy of isolation at their complete obliviousness to the severity of his situation. Even quidditch had become more of a necessary pastime than a hobby. Nothing seemed capable of drawing his attention.  
  
Well, almost nothing. Something else did pose a, surprisingly, almost equal amount of interest. Draco refused to admit himself toiling with obsession, but a niggling voice that he couldn't quite thrust into the recesses of his mind smirked at him in amusement of the denial.  
If he were to be honest with himself, he found his thoughts tracking along the same, well-worn paths, circling one of two images before flickering to the other. One, the ever infuriating yet eternally ominous looming doors of the Vanishing cabinet. The other, equally challenging, the pale, blank face of a boy who Draco still maintained was at least three years his junior, despite the denial embedded in the headmaster's introductory speech. He could not fathom where the sudden interest had sprung from, simply that he revelled in the opportunity to draw his attention from his mulling. Or, well, he would have, had such interest not been a complete reversal of his assumed character.  
  
Not that the boy was a particularly active participant in promoting his obsession. In fact, had he been purposely trying to be less responsive, he would have failed. Shrouded in a general cloak of silence, Potter sat at the back of at least half of Draco's classes, pressed against the wall and hidden by the shadows that seemed to morph with his faded jeans and dark jumpers. Such silences were broken only by the occasional, quiet query for clarification, always knowledge-based and expressing as much insight into the abnormality of his very person as his consistently blank face.  
  
Contrary to the speculated dwindling of interest, the complete disregard for his fellows only enticed gossip and speculation of the boy-enigma. So had he been named for the complete lack of context that accompanied his enrolment in at Hogwarts. Much to his self-disgust, Draco found himself similarly caught in the spider web of curiosity, only managing to suppress contributing to the speculations of Potter's origins through years of practicing his cold detachment.  
  
It was hence with more than a little surprise that, on the second Monday of returning to Hogwarts, barely ten minutes into the second period, Draco found himself staring wide-eyed at the Potter-boy standing awkwardly at the head of the classroom. He was not the only one; every onlooker, students and teacher alike, shared similar expressions of wonder and confusion. The assignment that was to consume their entire lesson at least had been completed, folded neatly into a pretty package, and unexpectedly delivered to their Professor.  
  
The boy had conducted a high-level spell, wandlessly, wordlessly and intentionally, on the first attempt and expressed not a hint of excitement, satisfaction or smugness. If it had not been so unexpected, Draco would have felt downright awed rather than comically flabbergasted.  
  
Edging slowly towards his seat again, Potter looked askance at the professor, cocking his head slightly as though requesting permission. McGonagall, shaking herself out of her stupor, nodded agreement for him to sink into his seat and turned to face her class once more. In an obvious attempt at nonchalance, pushing the incident to the side as though it were an everyday occurrence, she ran her hands down the front of her robes in that annoyingly predictable display of discomfort she so frequently conducted.  
  
'Alright, class, you have now witnessed two demonstrations, both significantly differing in execution. I believe it is time for everyone to begin participating in this practical class. If you would, one tray per person. Anyone so much as touches someone else's work and you'll be spending the evening with a quill in your hand and head bowed over parchment.'  
  
The deliberate divergence from the incident that still held everyone spellbound was so blatantly obvious that Draco felt himself drawn from the depths of his surprise. Rising to his feet alongside his classmates, the Slytherin fell into line to receive his equipment.  
  
Approaching the front of the room gave him, and everyone else, the opportunity to stare more closely at the object of their fascination. Like a shiny new toy, the novelty was all consuming. Draco maintained his regal composure with straight posture and forward gaze, yet even he could not be blamed if the boy featured strongly in his periphery.  
  
McGonagall and Potter conversed in deep, serious tones that could only be faintly heard from the aisle. Or, well, McGonagall spoke while Potter listened with only few and brief nods of his head as contribution. The boy seemed completely unfazed by the focused seriousness of the professor. The now familiar blank mask etched into his face was apparent even from his profile, even through the curtain of black fringe that seemed to permanently hang over his simple, black-framed glasses.  
  
His cold composure was an odd mix with the air of fragility that cloaked him. The lengthy robe offered no assistance in hiding the smallness of his frame, the long sleeves pulled down to his knuckles giving the impression of a child in his father's coat. Unusually, the mane of dark tresses had been affixed in a fair semblance of a braid that hung loosely over his shoulder, freeing his face and nape from concealment. Protruding collarbones could just be seen above the neck of his jumper. Coupled with the almost child-like delicacy of his features, he seemed utterly breakable. Far removed from the impression such a display of magic should have presented.  
  
And, be damned, Draco was staring directly at the boy now. He scowled, snapping his face to the front of the room and mentally kicking himself for the unconscious display of curiosity.  Scooping his tray and vase from the front desk with unnecessary force, he strode back to his desk without a backwards glance. Well, maybe one glance. One and a half.  
  
The rest of the lesson passed in a surprisingly jovial haze of whispers and excited speculations. Draco bared his ears, straining in particular for Granger's hushed discussion with Longbottom and Weasley when she, having completed her task, slid onto the bench beside her friends. He would never admit it aloud, but the girl was smart. Regardless of her Muggleblood status. If anyone could provide an accurate analysis of the unexpected occurrence, it was the Gryffindor.  
  
'..aco. Draco. Hey, Draco!'  
  
Turning from his straining attentiveness, head tilted to catch the barest breath of words, Draco scowled at the Slytherin girl beside him. Pansy Parkinson returned the scowl with like-minded intensity, but Draco saw through the hostile display like looking through water.  Disgruntlement and mild confusion pooled beneath the surface.  
  
'What?'  
  
'Hey, now, why are you in such a mood lately?' The girl flipped her dark hair in annoyance, turning back towards her half-melted vase. 'I was just wondering if you knew when our next Potions class was.'  
  
Draco raised an bored eyebrow. 'What? Why?'  
  
Pansy shrugged nonchalantly, a motion that positively screamed she was hiding something. 'No reason, particularly. I just heard that new potions professor, Slughorn, was scouting for members for his elitist club. I wanted to prepare myself accordingly. Get on the in, make connections, you know?'  
  
Draco frowned, confused. Pansy had never been one to suck up to teachers. Even her preening before Professor Umbridge in the previous year had been a farce forced upon her by her fellow Slytherins to gain favour of the detestable woman. The thought caused Draco to cringe internally; thank God the woman had been removed from the school. The continued subservience under her infuriating stupidity would have sent him packing if it did not so obviously irked the Gryffindor Trio of Wonders. Longbottom, Weasley and Granger had hated the toad. Yet towards the end of the year, even Draco had to admit she wore painfully thin.  
  
'Pansy, why do you really want to know?'  
  
The girl shrugged again. 'I told you, connections are important, even in high school-'  
  
'Er, wrong, Pansy, it is so bloody obvious.' Blaise leaned his elbow on the table, nearly knocking his own vase to the floor in his attempt to position himself to be included in the conversation. 'Everyone could tell the real reason for your question. Or, well, everyone except Draco apparently, who has been off with the fairies since the beginning of class. You alright, Dray?'  
  
Before Draco could answer, Pansy leaned into the boy beside her and flicked him sharply on the forehead. 'Do not undermine me, Blaise Zabini. I have no hidden motives-'  
  
'Pansy, my dear, you are a Slytherin. Of course you have hidden motives. And if your fixed staring at a certain new student is any indication, I'd say I'm right on the mark with my speculations. You just heard from Brown a second ago that Potter is definitely taking the Potions class. Isn't that right, Pans?'  
  
Pansy flushed faintly at Blaise's suggestion of her being interested in anything and proceeded to give him a verbal tongue-lashing. Draco, for his part, blinked in mild surprise. He was apparently the not the only one who found the Potter boy interesting. His classmate’s interest was apparent from the continued muttering throughout the room, but never would he have suspected the tidal wave of wonder the boy left in his wake.  
  
Were they all so deprived of something novel that the students sunk their teeth into even the smallest morsel of curiosity. _What was it about the boy that was so fascinating? Besides the wandless magic, of course._  
  
'I hear you, my friend. Though I can't say even I am immune to this new plague that seems to have gripped everyone. Hmm, I wonder...'  
  
Draco didn't realise he had spoken aloud until Blaise answered him with an uncharacteristically serious statement. 'Probably just a phase. I'm sure everyone will get over it.'  
  
'Certainly. Eventually. What do you think Dumbledore is going to do with him? You think he'll get sorted?'  
  
Pansy, finally having regained her composure, interjected herself pompously. 'There is hardly a need for him to be formally sorted. It's obvious that he has Slytherin blood in him; he kept his magic suppressed for years would take an iron will. That speaks of a Slytherin mind.'  
  
'Ah, but he is neither intimidated nor overwhelmed at being thrust into an unfamiliar environment. Even a Slytherin would know to lay low before testing out the waters of new surroundings, not flounce about spurting wandless magic. That reeks of Gryffindor.'  
  
Draco nodded in amused agreement to Blaise's assessment. 'But if he actually could control his wandless magic, that would point more to Ravenclaw than Gryffindor.'  
  
The three turned in unison to bore the boy's back with their intent stares. McGonagall still engaged him in conversation, though the tempo seemed to have dropped marginally from her previous hasty mutters. Her eyes no longer seemed on the verge of popping through her glasses.  
  
'I guess, at least not Hufflepuff.'  
  
Blaise and Draco both snorted in unison at Pansy's comment, struggling to suppress their snickers. The girl cast a wicked grin at her friends; it was generally acknowledged that Hufflepuff was reserved for the calm and the kind, with generosity bordering upon the truly stupid.  
  
'True,' Blaise added. 'Unless he suddenly demonstrates a taste for all things small and fluffy.'  
  
'Well, he does have a cat,’ Draco interjected, recalling the eerie, green-eyed fur ball. ‘You never can pick them.'  
  
The trio paused briefly, faces mirrors of serious contemplation before cracking simultaneously into fits of laughter. Draco sighed in relief at the good-humour, the easing of tension in his shoulders, however brief it may be. It was the first time he had laughed since his return to school. It felt good; he had missed laughing with his friends.  
  
The lesson continued in relaxed enjoyment. None of the three managed to liquefy their vases completely, and Pansy somehow managed to tinge the base of hers pink, but it was a lesson well spent in posing questions without answers. Theodore Nott, never one to be excluded from an opinion-based discussion, turned from his conversation with Boot to add his own queries to the pool of Unsolvables, vase neglected and barely shimmering with liquidation.  
  
The distraction of the 'incident' turned out to be in their favour, as for everyone else in the class. Only Granger, aside from Potter, had successfully managed to complete the transfiguration, but McGonagall was too distracted by her thoughts to even offer a reprimand to her pupils. The students dribbled from the classroom in small clusters, casting many an inquisitive glance at the professor and the anomaly at the other end of the room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All comments, suggestions and questions are welcome and very much appreciated. Thank you for keeping on reading!


	5. Of Joys and Dislikes

'I'm telling you, Albus; he left the wand on the desk as though he’d forgotten it! He didn't even need to have it in his hand to cast the spell, let alone speak an enchantment.'  
  
The headmaster sighed, rubbing his forehead tiredly. He had been conversing with his deputy for over an hour and they had only succeeded in revisiting statements voiced thrice already.  
  
'I heard you, Minerva. It is unexpected-'  
  
'To say the least! And compared to his attempts over the summer; you know when I asked him he finally admitted that he couldn’t conduct a simple transfiguration of sundial into pocket watch because he ‘didn’t understand the complex mechanics of the watch’? As though such understanding is even consequential!’ Minerva’s face was flushed slightly pink as she huffed in frustration. ‘And now this, this complete about face; I can't say I've been more shocked by the performance of a student in my entire teaching career. I’d never even mentioned a solid-to-liquid transfiguration before and even if I had… He has only been casting magic for four months! How is this possible?'  
  
Albus turned his pale gaze towards the woman pacing like a caged tiger before his desk. 'Is that the truth, I wonder?'  
  
The witch strode two more paces, lost in thought, before stopping abruptly. 'What?'  
  
‘Has it really been only four months that he has been casting magic?'  
  
Minerva frowned, her face crinkling in confusion. She stepped up to the desk and braced her hands upon the polished oaken wood. 'You told me he had demonstrated so little magical tendencies that you thought he may be a squib.’ Her voice was low, almost harsh in its intensity. ‘You told me that you thought you and the Ministry may both have misread the single incident that indicated his first and _only_ display of accidental magic. You said yourself it was _incredibly_ rare for a child so young to show their inclinations towards magical adeptness, that it may have been a misleading signal. That only twelve children in known history have produced a spark under the age of two. You said-'  
  
'I am aware of what I said, Minerva.' The elderly wizard sighed, removing his spectacles to rub at his eyes with his right hand. The mangled fingers, a souvenir of his dabbling over the summer, caught the younger witch's eye before she turned away, falling into silence. 'I believe that the trace placed upon young wizards is fool proof. There has been no prior record of any child circumventing the spell cast upon them at birth. It was natural to assume as much.  
  
'However,’ and his eyes became penetrating as he reaffixed his spectacles, ‘if he has somehow managed to dampen his magical signal, while still smothering the trace, than there is no telling for how long he has intentionally practiced magic. Performance can vary exceptionally, differing between countries with difference in cultures. Who is to say he has not constructed his own form of magic through trial and error, one which relies more upon natural ability than the crutch of a wand?'  
  
Minerva’s face had fallen into a mask of stunned speechlessness. Her eyes blinked rapidly behind the square frames of her lenses, lips clamped in a hard line as though to prevent a cry of disbelief from passing her lips. 'Both Lily and James, Lily especially, were talented spell-casters. It would perhaps be… conceivable to consider he may be innately talented... Do you suppose he has been practicing wandless magic before he begun formal education under my tutelage?'  
  
Albus shrugged heavily. Harry Potter was an unexpected enigma. He had resigned himself to letting the boy slip silently into the shadows of the public eye after his refusal to attend Hogwarts five years ago. He had even assisted the transition by pointedly drawing attention away from the child. Harry had suffered enough loss in his life, he hardly needed the press hounding his every move.  
  
Besides, despite his role as one of Voldermort's chosen targets, the Dark Lord seemed to have seen his existence as merely a buzzing fly of annoyance, instead focusing solely on the other recipient of his malevolent attention. For the most part, Neville Longbottom had taken upon the role as the Boy Who Lived splendidly. He was neither exceptionally talented, nor as bright as would be expected from a hero, but his courage and resilience, to say nothing of his magical strength, had more than made up for any lack. Perhaps growing up in a Wizarding household, even with the tragic absence of his mother, had provided adequate foundations for his strong character.  Unwittingly, the focus of the limelight had cast the memory of the second survivor under a blanket of disregard. Facts of the validity of Harry Potter's similar survival in the face of the Killing Curse had slipped towards speculation and finally mild disbelief. No one had heard a whisper of the boy in more than fifteen years. Who's to say he even existed in the first place?  
  
'I believe, Minerva,' Albus murmured quietly into the frozen silence of the room, breaking from his reverie, 'that Harry Potter is a more complicated young man than we gave him credit for. If it is true, and he has practiced magic for some time now, I cannot fathom his refusal to attend school, nor his desire to force his innate ability so far beneath the surface that it disappeared from the Ministry radar entirely. I can only assume that this is what he had managed; I see no other way of avoiding the eye of the Board of Magical Persons Statistics.’ He peered thoughtfully at the woman fidgeting before his desk. ‘Perhaps you could take it upon yourself to...?'  
  
Minerva nodded in agreement, drawing correct conclusions from his suggestive statement. 'I'll see what I can glean from him when he comes to my office tomorrow afternoon. I have discovered that, though Harry is not proactive in speaking of himself, he is neither averse to answering direct questions.'  
  
The headmaster nodded, satisfied. The best approach would be to learn as much of the boy as possible to best gauge his level of competency, his magical capacity, and his general willingness to divulge the secrets of his past. The whole situation niggled irritatingly in the corner of Albus’ mind, pushing him towards a foggy conclusion he could not yet discern the shape of. Something was decidedly odd about the situation. Something had driven the boy into a sheltered corner that masked his magic from curious eyes. Though what it was...  
  
'Thank you, Minerva. I believe that would be the best approach. Please, inform me of further developments when you are afforded the opportunity.'  
  
The head of Gryffindor nodded in understanding before spinning on her heel and departing from the room. Not a final word of farewell broke the silence. Likely she had a night of contemplation as infuriating as the headmaster's own ahead of her.  
  
Leaning back in his chair, Albus pressed his fingers together in a steeple, pondering idly over the events that had unfolded. His research of the previous summer seemed to be interwoven into the issue of Harry Potter in an unexpected yet captivating mixture. He couldn’t quite pinpoint it, but there seemed a discord upon the horizon, an unforseen role for the boy that was yet to be discovered. Surely it was only too convenient that the boy appear back on the surface of magical society. As of yet, the Headmaster could not pinpoint just what role the child had to play; Neville was the Boy-Who-Lived, or at least the one that held the eye of the Dark Lord. Where exactly did Harry sit in the entire mess that had erupted once more?  
Sighing, Albus raised himself slowly from his seat. His blackened hand twinged slightly with the pressure of placing it upon the arm of the chair, but he shrugged off the pain. It was a necessary scar; unfortunate, but unavoidable.  
  
Drifting across the room to the pensive propped on its stand beside the wall, the elderly wizard placed his wand to his temple and drew the sliver of memory from his mind. Casting the shimmering, lace-like thread into the glass bowl, Dumbledore felt himself once more slip into silent contemplation. Of the war, of the Dark Lord, of Neville and Harry both. If only he had more time, greater flexibility, to pursue the puzzle of his new and unconventional student. But there was no time, and flexibility was a thing of the past. There was much to consider, and much as he loathed to do so, plans to implement that involved more than a small number of unwitting characters. Yes, it would be a long night indeed. 

 

* * *

  
Harry had never been more content in his life. Not happy, exactly. He doubted he would ever feel comfortable enough in the overwhelming halls and constant crowding of the school for his primary emotion to be joy. He had never been one for socialising; it raised too much hostility and too many unwanted questions from first his aunt and uncle in Little Whinging, and then from his uncle Stephen. It was always easier to avoid the situation entirely.  
  
As such, the forced habitation with so many unfamiliar individuals was trying to say the least. Harry had progressed from speaking often less that once a day to answering a multitude of questions every hour. He pushed himself to compose adequate answers with a semblance of friendliness, but could tell from the faint bewilderment of his fellow students that they found him somehow...odd.  Such an impression was not unfamiliar to him; Harry had been raised to see himself as 'odd' his entire life, first from the Dursleys and then the wary stares he received from his primary and high school classmates at his self-imposed isolation. As such, curious glances of the Hogwarts students, absent of malevolence or even caution, barely fazed him. If anything, they were rather interesting themselves. It was no struggle at all to keep his emotions firmly under guard and beneath the telling surface of his face, though slightly more trying to avoid sinking purposefully into the shadows of every room he entered.  
  
It was barely halfway through the second week of term before it became apparent that the sixth year cohort had decided, as a whole, to make it their mission to draw every detail of Harry Potter's personal life into the open. In the brief moments of teacher-less preoccupation at the beginning and end of each class, Harry found he could barely think over the endless firing of questions.  
  
'Where are you from?'  
  
'Who did you live with?'  
  
'French? Oh, how romantic. Can you say something in French?'  
  
'What? You got a letter when you were eleven? What on earth made you decide to go to Muggle school instead of Hogwarts?'  
  
'Why did you suddenly decide to come to Hogwarts now?'  
  
'Was it really the first time you've ever held a wand this last summer? Wow, what a late bloomer! How unusual!'  
  
The questions and enthusiasm was never ending. Harry marvelled silently that they managed to keep up a continuous stream of queries without revisiting some of their earlier conversations. Yet like patchwork the students picked at his personal history in an attempt to smooth out a seamless quilt of his life story.  
  
He would be lying if he said it didn't leave him feeling more than a little violated. No one had ever taken any overt interest in his life before. It was an unnerving experience.  
  
However, even with this affable intrusion of privacy, Harry found he had never before experienced the liberties that were now afforded to him at Hogwarts. Never before had he been loosed from the persistent rain of terror of either the Dursleys or uncle Stephen. The absence left a not unwelcome hole in his chest that he prodded carefully at each night when freed from the company of the other students. It trembled like a tender wound, yet in much the same way that time spread a slow, healing tingle through a broken limb, his careful prodding seemed to gradually soothe the edges of the tear into something less...painful.  
  
No, he was not sure if he was 'happy', but he had never been closer to happiness in his life.

  
By Friday afternoon of the second week, Harry believed he could accurately name everyone in the sixth year. It had taken time to discern the identity of all, especially the quieter individuals given that he adamantly refused to interrogate them for their names himself. Of the entire class, Hermione - Granger's first name - seemed to be the most amicable of the lot. She, unlike the rest of her peers, seemed to have instead made it her personal vendetta to ensure he was not overtly overwhelmed and was provided with any assistance necessary, whether it concerned his studies or the pervasive presence of her fellow classmates. Predictably, the girl was incredibly bright and seemed to fail to comprehend when those around her felt her endless supply of knowledge to be somewhat taxing.  
  
Harry himself felt rather grateful for the assistance, which Hermione likely perceived as she made a concerted effort to ensure that she now sat beside him in every one of his classes. He was lucky she appeared to have undertaken a rather strenuous workload that covered just about every subject available.  
  
It was hence at the close of their Friday evening Potions class that Harry found himself beside Hermione as she tried – and failed – to bat the persistent attention of her fellow Gryffindors from her charge. A brief shrug of Harry's part left her rocking back in her chair, arms folded and seething silently as she presided over the conversation like a mother hawk over her chittering chicks.  
  
Lavender and Parvati, both Gryffindor girls, had simultaneously endeavoured to capture his full attention. With unnerving presumptuousness, they both dropped their elbows on the desk before him and chattered in animated conversation, seemingly unaware that he barely contributed. It was unsurprising; Harry was accustomed to being spoken at rather than to. He found he didn't really mind, even preferred it to having to answer their questions.  
  
What he did find distressing, however, was the unexpected and novel desire of the girls to make it a hands-on experience. When Lavender had first touched his fringe, he had nearly slapped her fingers away in a violent response to her intrusiveness, his hand stayed only by the utter shock that froze him in place. It took all his mental strength to suppress the shivering tingle of disgust, the sickly thought of _dirty_ , from spewing forth as he affixed his eyes away from girl’s retreating fingers.  
  
'Ah, it's so soft! I really love it; you hardly ever see guys grow their hair long.'  
  
'I know, right! I love the little curl in the bottom. I wish my hair did that. Have you always had it long, Harry?'  
  
Harry shrugged stiffly, nervous chills dribbling down his spine as he suppressed the desire to flee the room. 'Ever since I've lived with my uncle Stephen, yeah.'  
  
The girls twittered delightedly.  
  
'Well, don't you ever even think about cutting it.' Lavender ran her hand through the tips of his fringe again, drawing it back behind his ear. _Why oh why were they so touchy-feely_?! 'Oh, and you have earrings too! Wow, I wouldn't have thought they you were that sort of guy, but it actually looks good on you.'  
  
'Yeah, it really does! What is it, is it a special design?'  
  
Swallowing down the flood of bile that rose in the back of his throat, Harry closed his eyes briefly before speaking in a voice even more muted than usual. 'It's a knot. I think something Gaelic. My uncle suggested it when I was eleven.' He sent a mental plea to any god that would consider his plight that the plucking fingers would retreat.  
  
'Aw, your uncle said you should get them? You must really love him, huh? I wish my uncle was like that...'  
  
A snort broke through the inane chatter of the two girls, hushing them into silence.  
'And does your all-knowing uncle also wake you up, dress you and pack your lunch in the morning, or are you old enough to do that by yourself?'  
  
Silence met the drawling tone, cutting cleanly into the conversation with the purposefulness of a carving knife through flesh. Every face turned to the slouching Slytherin leaning on the edge of his desk beside his gradually rising friends. Bag slung over one shoulder, Draco Malfoy observed the frozen audience like a king gazing upon peasants. Arrogance and condescension radiated from him in constant waves.  
  
Harry similarly turned to the interrupter. He remembered the boy from when he was learning the names of everyone in the class. He also remembered him as the one who had initially laughed into that endless silence in the Great Hall the first night at Hogwarts. And from the train. Unexpectedly, observing his arrogant slouch and aloof smirk, Harry felt himself grounded, the sickly roiling in his gut steadying itself.  
  
Tilting his head towards the teen, he affixed him with a curious gaze. 'He doesn't, but my uncle did tell me that rhetorical questions are the go-to for precocious arses when they feel like they need to contribute. _Toutes mes excuses,_ butwas that a rhetorical question, or is this another one of those language barrier things?'  
  
Gasps met the statement. Silence hung in the room; a feather could have been heard dropping to the ground. Harry didn't particularly care if he had overstepped. It was unlike him to respond to such statements; perhaps the questioning of the past weeks had actually gotten to him. Not that it truly mattered. He didn't care if the class shunned him for his bluntness. The statement was laced with as much light-hearted sarcasm as the question the taller boy had presented, though Harry masked his words beneath innocent curiosity. Somehow, he felt that the boy was more likely to respond simply the comment with a brush of hidden amusement than to blow a fuse.  
  
Draco adopted a sneer, lip curling and eyelids drooping half-lidded in a guise of sleepy boredom. Observing the display, Harry was put in mind of a practiced actor adopting his expression for the next scene. Not anger or disgust but the anticipated amusement was conveyed by his sardonic expression.  
  
Snorting again, with a roll of his eyes the pale, blonde-haired boy turned towards his remaining two onlooking companions – Pansy and… Blaise? - and the three filed out of the room. The echoes of their footsteps had faded into the distance, a ringing click of heavy soles, before the silence snapped like a taught bowstring.  
  
Lavender was the gushing gossip, eyes alight as she turned to Harry excitedly. 'Oh my god, I can't believe you just called Malfoy an arse!'  
  
Harry shook his head slightly, faintly bemused. ‘I didn’t really _call_ him an-‘ 'It was so called for, though. Arrogant prick, I can't stand him.' Parvati gushed excitedly, overwhelming his words, and fell into a fit of giggles with her friend.  
  
Ron Weasley, a tall boy with hair the colour of carrot cake, sidled up to Harry's left, grinning broadly before turning to his friend Neville. 'He's always been like that, though, hasn't he? Bloody git, I only wished I said it first!'  
  
'You have, Ron, so many times. You just wait until Malfoy's out of earshot before saying anything.' Neville bumped shoulders with his best friend as he too crowded at the desk, and the two broke into chuckles. ‘Still, I couldn’t agree more. Did you see his face?’  
Harry stared at the babbling Gryffindors, gaze jumping between each figure as Dean and Seamus approached and contributed their own congratulations.  ‘Nice use of the language barrier excuse, Harry.’ ‘Wait, you’re originally from England, though, right?’ ‘Merlin you’re slow, of course he understood him. It was a perfect comeback _because_ it seemed so genuine.’ ‘Serves the arse right.’ Harry felt the tightening of an invisible frown on his forehead. No, they were wrong. He hadn't said it to receive appreciative recognition. It was simple banter, no sting intended. Draco had felt as little offence at the digging remark as Harry had, he was sure. The sneer had barely concealed his amusement of the situation. Had their classmates not realised the false question and answer for what they were? If anything, Harry felt only thanks towards the boy for breaking the contact Lavender had forced upon him.  
  
Hermione was the only one who failed to express enthusiasm at the verbal combat. Rolling her eyes, she turned to Harry and offered a knowing smile at his similar lack of enthusiasm, face falling back into its typical affronted façade.  
  
'Well, if everyone has had enough of their joking on Malfoy's behalf, I think it's time we head to dinner.' An appreciative murmur met her suggestion and chairs scraped the floor as everyone rose hastily to fill their bellies. 'Harry, would you...like you join us today?'  
  
Harry paused in the motion of slinging his satchel over his shoulder. Cold dread pooled in his stomach, a shadow of the distress he had felt with Lavender moments before. Swallowing slightly, he dropped his eyes. How to get out of this one? It was not as though he disliked his classmates, but maybe just...  
  
'Not yet?' Hermione shed her matronly smile upon him, that now familiar look of knowing crinkling the corners of her eyes. 'I suppose McGonagall is still taking up most of your evenings, right? You poor thing, more lessons after lessons.' She shuddered in a display that no one, not even Harry, believed for a moment. Hermione would have no doubt revelled in the chance for even more classes.  
  
Gratitude flooded Harry's chest and he released a silent sigh of relief. Hermione truly was too good to him. 'Yeah, I'll...thank you, Hermione. Not yet but maybe soon.'  
  
A smattering of 'aw, no's and 'well, soon then' met his comment, but the Gryffindors parted with smiles and a wave, leaving Harry in their search for dinner. Feeling his shoulders slump in the release of tension, Harry turned in the opposite direction and made his way back to Feathwood's rooms.

 

* * *

 

The Defence Against the Dark Arts room had taken on a sombre tone with the appointment of its newest teacher. Professor Snape has dressed the room in darkness, covering windows and stripping the walls bare of anything with even a hint of colour. The room had become, for all intents and purposes, a mirror of his dungeon classroom save that it was bereft of cauldrons.  
  
Draco peered through the doorway, watching as the pale, hook-nosed man swept about the room, thrusting desks to the edges of the room with a flick of his wand. The Slytherin had never seen a professor setting up their room before, so this was a new experience for him. He had never in his life shown up early for a class. This year was shaping up to urge firsts for a number of things.  
Sinking back behind the door, Draco slumped against the wall to wait for his classmates to arrive. He had come alone to the room. Even now, when he waited in uncharacteristically nervous anticipation, he could not believe his actions of two days prior. That which had effectively wound him in his situation. Mulling over the impossible puzzle of the Vanishing cabinet and drifting into his usual melancholy, Defence Against the Dark Arts on Tuesday morning had seen Draco largely oblivious to the cold, flat stare that Snape was directing at Potter. Oh, he was aware of the shift in mood, but Snape was never actually happy anyway so he barely noticed unless the man's seething wrath was directed towards him personally.  
  
He was drawn from his pondering by a faint hiss from the Gryffindor side of the room. The desks had been shuffled to the walls this lesson as they conducted yet another practical class. Snape appeared to prefer the hand-on approach, differing vastly to Umbridge's teaching style of the previous year. Today, the sixth years were converting their prior knowledge of the defensive spell Protego into its classical and ultimate form, _Protego Maxima_. If Snape was to be believed, it was a childishly simple conversion that should be achieved upon the second if not the first try if one had mastered the smaller shield charm.  As it was, the teacher was moving slowly around the room, directing his students one by one to attempt the spell and meeting only disappointment. Save for Granger, of course; the Mudblood had failed her first attempt but cast an impressive display of shimmering blues and purples in a solid wall that spread beyond the walls of the room on her second. It had only drawn Draco's attention for a moment, however, before he sunk back into the far reaches of his mind.  
  
Given the depths of his mulling, he had missed the events leading to the open hostility displayed by the Gryffindors. Even so, he could have guessed it was because of Potter. The boy had become something of a mascot of the Gryffindors. Draco didn't particularly care - he didn't, truly - but for some reason, whenever the sauntering gold and red-garbed students fawned over the boy he felt a twinge of… annoyance in his chest. Likely the hatred of his overly confident peers was triggering the usual repulsive response. As Potter seemed to express nothing but careless acceptance of their mothering, neither liking nor hating the attention, Draco felt a faint resentment towards the second half of his class in general though oddly enough it didn’t seem particularly directed towards Potter. Still, it was a shame, really. The boy had showed promise of being other than the arrogant, pig-headed stereotype of the Gryffindor. Given the tokenistic role the new boy had adopted, Draco should have revelled in any criticism his Head of House could lather upon a member of the opposing house.  
  
However, on this day, as Potter bowed his head before the Defence professor, he felt nothing so much as an unexpected sympathy well within him. What had happened? Why was the boy upset? For, though his face maintained the blank nonchalance that never seemed to waver, something about him bespoke sadness.  
  
'And I had heard you were something of a magical protégé.' Snape's lip curled in distaste, sneering down at the bowed head. From across the room, Draco could discern the look of barely suppressed fury on Longbottom's face as he rose from the desk he was leaning upon and eased gently towards the boy. A brief glance saw the compassion and accusation, directed at Potter and Snape respectively, painted upon Granger's. The other Gryffindor's exhibited varying degrees of similar emotions. 'Would you perhaps consider using a wand, rather than flaunt your wandless techniques?'  
  
Potter shook his head fractionally, head still bowed. 'I can't imagine that would make much of a difference, sir.'  
  
The sneer on Snape's face contorted his features in an ugly grimace. Draco had never before felt sorry for another student at the tail end of his teacher's aggression; it was a year for firsts indeed.  
  
'Typical. So like your father, to avoid the situation if you cannot bulldoze through it with ease. Tell me, Potter, are you truly a fool, or does the fear of failure leave you in a state too lazy to even try?'  
  
The boy shrugged, finally raising his chin. This time, Draco was sure he saw a flicker of something that could have been forlornness skitter behind the flat reflectiveness of his glasses. 'I'd say it's probably a bit of both, sir.'  
  
Silence met his words. It was not because the reply was laced with sarcasm, for it wasn't. More surprisingly, not an ounce of offence or anger coloured his words. Rather, Draco was left with the impression that Potter fully believed his own words. Feeling his eyebrows rise in surprise, the Slytherin focused acutely upon the boy. He couldn't fathom such self-degradation himself.  
  
Snape, for all his twisted words, was more prone to criticism to encourage progress. Even he appeared at a loss of how to respond. Draco was briefly startled when he saw the man blink rapidly, the greatest display of surprise he had ever witnessed from his head teacher. Potter seemed to have a knack for eliciting such responses from the professors.  
  
Eventually regaining his composure, Snape reconsidered the sneer he had on his face, letting it drop as he turned slightly from the boy. The unfounded fury directed towards him seemed to have abruptly vanished, at least temporarily.  
  
'Well, Potter, I believe that, regardless of you charms and transfiguration abilities, your defensive spells will need some more serious attention. You are not familiar with even the most basic defensive and offensive spells?'  
  
Harry shook his head slowly in reply. 'It's not so much that I don't know them, sir, but that I can't really produce them. I don't know why.'  
  
Snape nodded, seeming to accept the boy's confusion itself. His angered gaze had dropped into neutral contemplation. A soft mutter slipped unconsciously from his lips, barely audible as he considered. 'Perhaps...pair him with a fellow student just to see...'  
  
'I'll do it, Professor.'  
  
For a moment, Draco was as startled as everyone else in the room. It took him a moment realise, when all eyes swivelled towards him in astonishment, that the suggestion had been voiced by himself.  
  
Oh. Oh, that was not good. Draco had always revelled in being the centre of attention, yet always for the right reasons. Suggesting an offer of assistance... Could he possibly have said anything less fitting for his character, less Slytherin?  
  
Swallowing hastily, he adopted an expression of bored amusement. 'I could do with a live recipient to catch my spells rather than simply hitting a wall of Protego or a dummy. It will give me a chance to practice some of my spell reversal techniques, too.'  
  
A sigh of relief nearly slipped from his lips as the shocked faces of his fellow students slipped into a smattering of outrage, amusement and resigned understanding. Weasley and Longbottom, and most of the Gryffindors for that matter, had adopted expressions of open fury. For his part, Snape retained his neutrality. He wasn't buying the swiftly fabricated lie, that much was apparent. Yet it hardly mattered, as after a moment of contemplation he nodded his head.  
  
'As you wish, Draco. Try not to cause him irreversible damage.'  
  
Draco forced a smirk onto his lips, nodding his own agreement and opened his mouth to reply before Granger interrupted passionately. 'Sir, please, let me partner with him. I'm his friend, I can-'  
  
'Miss Granger, you will be silent.'  
  
Neville took up the plea, face flushed and positively hissing. 'But Professor, you heard what he said, you can't possibly-'  
  
'Enough! I have made my decision.'  
  
Draco's smirk became genuine as his teacher adeptly smothered the protests. The Gryffindors were not to know that any disagreement on their part only strengthened Snape's resolve. For himself, Draco had long since discovered that he could conveniently manipulate this flaw in his godfather’s character to achieve his own ends.  
  
Turning towards the boy he had somehow ended up partnering with, Draco was surprised to observe a slight crack in his nonchalant facade. Not fear, dread or even wariness that he may have expected, but instead a glimmer of curiosity. As he met Draco's eyes, the ghost of a smile unfurled at the corners of Potter's lips. He was...amused? What the hell did he have to be amused about?  
  
The lesson had proceeded rapidly after the interruption. True to the name Distraction that Draco had spontaneously labelled Potter, the Slytherin found himself successfully distracted from the melancholy of his mulling for the rest of the class. If asked, he could not have told anyone what exactly he had been thinking about, only that it was not of the Vanishing Cabinet, his nearing demise, or the Dark Lord. And that more often than not he would find himself turning to glance at a certain dark-haired boy with glasses.  
Draco sighed, leaning his head back against the stone wall. Closing his eyes, he pressed his palms into his eyelids until sparks burst in fireworks in the blessed darkness. What had possibly possessed him to offer to help the other boy? He barely had enough time on his hands to attempt the Dark Lord's task as it was. He could hardly afford to take a pitiful, lost kitten under his wing and teach him the ropes of defensive magic.  
  
He sighed again, releasing a groan. Maybe he could ask Snape to-  
  
'Are you alright?'  
  
Smacking his head painfully against the stone, Draco scrambled to keep his feet from sliding from beneath him as he slumped against the wall. Wincing, he turned toward the source of the voice, hands pressed against the cool stone behind him to steady himself in the undignified display.  
  
Standing not three feet away was Potter himself. It appeared that his contemplation of the Distraction had distracted him from the silent approach of said Distraction itself. How ironic.  
Adopting a mask of affront bordering on arrogant anger, Draco folded his arms across his chest. 'Potter. You're here awfully early for class.'  
  
The boy simply shrugged slightly, that barely perceptible movement that Draco had seen him pull so many times. Otherwise ignoring him, Potter turned on the spot, squatting to the floor with his pervasive silence. Moments later he rose again, turning with his arms full of the flopping limbs of his black cat. Vibrant green eyes fixed upon Draco. The Slytherin shuddered in unwarranted uneasiness. He hadn't seen the cat approach either.  
  
'I always get to class early. It's not like I have much else to do.'  
  
Draco nodded in acceptance, barely hearing the words. The lilting of the boy’s words, the soft huskiness of his French accent, rung with a gentle melody in his ears, yet despite his appreciation he barely heard it. His eyes were glued onto the creature lying lazily in Potter's arms, purring contentedly and eyes closed to near slits. Draco could swear that the cat was smirking at him.  
  
'Do you bring that thing around with you everywhere you go? I've seen it in the back of class a couple of times.'  
  
Potter shook his head, staring down upon the black hairball as he ran a finger over its ears. 'No, I don't bring her. Lyssy just seems to follow me wherever I go. I used to try locking her in my room, but she’d manage to get out somehow. She's always done that, even back in Paris. Maybe she has her own little bit of magic. That or she's a natural-born Houdini.'  
  
The silence that followed his words was broken only by the heavy purr ringing from the cat’s throat. Draco stared at the boy and cat both, incredulity threatening to tug the composure from his face. That would have been the longest speech he had ever heard from the boy that was not regarding his studies. And the cat was… what kind of a name was Lyssy, anyways?  
  
'She obviously dotes on you, then.'  
  
Harry nodded in agreement, a simple acceptance of the fact rather than smugness, and raised his eyes to meet Draco's. The faint ghost of a smile, the corners of his lips barely tilting, somehow managed to soften his face exponentially.  
  
Clearing his throat awkwardly as he banished the unexpectedly poetic thought from his mind, Draco turned back to the door of the classroom. 'Snape's just setting up. He probably won't be long.'  
  
Potter nodded again, head tilted slightly as he looked at the taller boy. The cat was now staring too, gazing up at him from lamplight reflective eyes that were again disconcertingly more expressive than the boy’s who held him. If he were to put a name to it...fascination would have been written in bold letters across the cat's brow.  
  
Clearing his throat again to fill the silence, Draco found himself shifting in unease. This was not normal; he had never felt uneasy with someone in his life. Angry, plenty, but uneasy? It was a response that he found himself eliciting from others, not experiencing himself. Opening his mouth to speak, he clicked his tongue in consideration.  
  
'So, you suck at defensive spells.'  
  
That faint smile tipped the corners of Potter's lips again. It was oddly captivating, yet at odds with the curious blankness of his eyes. Draco was unsure if the boy truly was emotionless or the reflective surface of his overlarge glasses caused the flatness. 'I guess you could say that.'  
  
'What I don't understand is how you can nail McGonagall's transfiguration in one shot, a sixth year advanced spell at that, but can't manage a simple second year Protego. What's up with that?'  
  
For a moment, Draco wondered if he had sounded a little too aggressive in his query. It was not cruel as far as the Slytherin's comments could be, but the boy before him seemed to emanate fragility and feebleness like a picked flower.  
_  
What the hell is this? Why should I even care if he's offended?_  
  
But he did, inconceivable as it may seem. And that was that.  
  
Harry didn't seem the slightest bit perturbed by the statement, however. 'I don't know. I discussed it with Professor McGonagall, but she can't really understand it either. That happens a lot with my spell casting. I guess... I feel like if I can understand how it could possibly work, or how it’s possible, or if I can really see how it is useful and that I could benefit from it, then I can do it. If that makes sense.' His hand dropped to the head of the cat again, stroking gently and enticing another round of purring. Draco wondered if it was a nervous response, the stroking, but the boy showed no other symptoms of unease. Just that same blank nonchalance.  
  
'What, and you don't think a Protego could be useful?'  
  
Another faint smile. 'I guess not.'  
  
Draco snorted. Of all the barmy things... 'Well, Potter, it's my job to try and drag the basics out of you. Don't make me look like an idiot.' Or, well, more of an idiot that he already appeared, with his enthusiastic offer to help the hapless case.  
  
'Why does everyone call me that…?'  
  
Draco paused in his internal reprimand. 'What?'  
  
'You, and everyone else just about except for Hermione and her friends. You all call me Potter. Why is that?'  
  
Draco was at a loss. 'It's your name, isn't it?'  
  
The boy shrugged. 'Sure, it's my last name, but I haven't used it in years. Besides, no teenager in the modern English-speaking world refers to each other by their surname only. Not even in school.'  
  
Confused for a moment, Draco resorted back to familiar territory: condescending insults. 'Well, maybe not in Muggle schools, but they are all backwards and whatever which way. No pride in their family name. It's pathetic.'  
  
Harry bowed his head over the black fur ball again. 'Yeah, maybe.'  
  
Raising an eyebrow and turning to stare directly at the boy once more, Draco prodded at the point of his confusion. 'If not Potter, what do you like to be called?'  
  
Where had this generosity come from? Actually asking what the boy would prefer? What was happening to him?  
  
Harry shrugged in reply. 'I've been using my uncle's surname since high school, so Defaux if you'd like. But most civil people refer to each other by their first names, so Harry. Just Harry.'  
  
Draco suppressed a smirk at the deceptively sarcastic words. Was it sarcastic? There was no indication in the tone, but something about the almost chuckling slouch of the cat in Harry's arms seemed to radiate his true intentions. Funny, how the cat seemed to express the emotive responses that should accompany the situation better than Harry did.  
  
Unconsciously, and with startling immediacy, Draco realised he had just been thinking of the boy as Harry. Well, that settled it then,  
  
'Alright. Harry. Or Defaux, whichever I feel inclined to use.' Turning as he heard a faint chattering, he slipped his mask of bored arrogance back onto his face. He couldn't even remember when it had slipped off.  
  
'Sure, Draco.' It was quiet, barely audible, but Draco felt the stirrings of something entirely foregin quiver in his chest at the words. It was the first time Harry had called him by name.  
  
It would only be later that Draco would realise Harry had never actually said he liked to be called Defaux. The realisation of its significance was as slow in coming as his understanding.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Thank you so much to everyone who has been commenting! It's so heart-warming; I can't thank you enough for the kindness of your words. It is truly the best feeling!  
> So, a little bit longer, this chapter. I think they should be from now on (not entirely sure, but...). As such, it might be a little longer to get chapters out, but if so not by much. Next week at the latest.  
> Thank you once more for sticking with me, everyone. I hope you continue to enjoy :)  
> As always, any comments, questions or suggestions are more than welcome and appreciated.


	6. The Curiosities That Haunt Us

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: So, this chapter takes a little bit of a dive to the dark side.  
> Just a heads up, this is the first real glimpse into the themes of child abuse and violence, sometimes a bit graphically. If you are not okay with that - which is very understandable; I mean, who really is - please tread lightly. I don't mean to offend anyone, and if you think that such depictions may be triggering, please don't read. 
> 
> Wow... I can't believe I'm actually telling people NOT to read my work.

The turn of the month saw Harry heading into Defence Against the Dark Arts early once more. Such was not unusual, but had rather become a habit. By unspoken consensus, both Harry and Draco naturally fell into the rhythm of starting their partnered class early. Draco claimed it was easier to talk about anything Harry wished to discuss when in the quietude of an empty classroom. 

Well, he didn’t quite say it as such. ‘You’re terrible enough at Defence as it is; you’ll need all the time you can get and it’s less tiresome when other people aren’t around’ was a more accurate description of his words. And despite the tone of condescension – that Harry secretly found quite amusing in its pompousness – he was right. Harry felt he learned nearly as much from their brief conversations in the quiet before class as he did from observing the practical components of the lessons.

Even more than simply the learning aspects of Draco’s long-suffering ‘tutelage’, Harry found he rather looked forward to their time together. The realisation was at once shocking and not altogether unwelcome. Unlike the triggering interactions with Parvati and Lavender, or the laid back conversations with Neville and Ron that he could not entirely lose himself in, when with Draco he felt much the same ease as with Hermione. Perhaps more so, even. There was none of the good-natured intrusiveness, and when he sunk into muteness neither forced him to converse.

Working alongside Draco was a curious experience. He was obviously talented, and new it too. The repertoire of spells he conducted with apparent ease, revelling in the admiration radiating from his fellow Slytherins and barely concealed resentment from everyone else, were simply magical to behold. Harry found himself looking forward to Defence Against the Dark Arts if only to bear witness to the taller boy's artful display of enchantments. Between the blonde-haired boy's rapids, graceful movements and bursts of forceful colours and Hermione's logical, practical yet oddly artistic interpretation of wand-movements, the class at times appeared to have taken on the guise of a dancing lesson. 

More fascinating, however, was the performance that Harry bore witness to like an audience at a stage play. In addition to an endless surplus of spells the Slytherin boy flicked through with apparent ease, his repertoire of expressions was equally elaborate. It was a study in itself. As though deliberately setting his face for the desired response, the boy would rearrange his brows and set his jaw with deliberation rather than allowing it to slide into whatever shape felt most natural. For Harry, who had lived the majority of his life behind a shapeless mask of nonchalance, it was fascinating to behold the constant, calculated play of expressions. He silently and unobtrusively marvelled at the other boy's ability to shift his face into so many forms without nary a trembling slip up. Harry couldn't imagine the years of practice that had gone in building that façade. 

It took a whole two lessons of Defence Against the Dark Arts for Draco to realise that Harry was not fooled by his admirable acting abilities. Harry didn’t particularly know how he was so aware of it, and was hardly one to confess to knowing as much, but it was undeniable nonetheless. When they were both aware of this realisation, their rather rigid partnership became infinitely less awkward. Harry even dared to fathom that comfortable was an adequate description of their practice.

Over the weeks to come, Harry and Draco fell into a routine that steadily became the norm. Harry would partner with Draco in every Defence class, and after a rather fascinating discussion that spanned the entire first-to-sixth year Defence curriculum would then proceed to be little more than a punching bag for the spells Draco threw at him. True to his word, Draco rapidly put his reversal skills into practice, banishing the effects of the hexes almost immediately. Harry was becoming all too familiar with the incantation Finite Incantatum. 

Similarly, in a display that bordered on kindly as far as a Slytherin was concerned, the blonde boy seemed to restrain himself from the more damaging or lasting hexes. Instead, he settled for an array of spells that repeatedly left Harry skidding through the air, dropping to the floor or clutching at desks to maintain his feet as his legs turned to jelly. 

Harry didn't particularly mind being the victim of the spells. After all, it wasn’t like they really hurt, and every student was required to lather themselves in a lemon-scented balm before leaving the darkness of the room that reportedly eradicated rising of bruises and eased aching muscles. Hermione, however, despite this precaution, could barely contain her distress.

The Gryffindor girl initially hovered protectively at his side throughout every Defence class, scowling at Draco each time he sent a jinx his was and coaxing Harry encouragingly into retaliating. Her protective instinct were both astounding and admirable, despite their unwarranted nature. Neville and Ron, her constant companions, both glared daggers at the Slytherin from behind their friend's back. The Gryffindor trio barely bothered to pretend they were practicing spells as they seemed to focus all of their attention on their hatred of Harry's tutor. 

Draco, for his part, seemed none the worse for wear for being subjected to their visible loathing. He maintained his own sneer, lip curled and eyelids dropping in that bored expression he seemed to favour, but Harry could discern the amusement that bubbled beneath the surface. Draco seemed to actually enjoy taunting the Gryffindors, and even more to leave them with the possibility that he could, at any moment, hit Harry with a fatal spell.

Harry shared the good humour of his Defence partner, though for entirely different reasons. It was completely unfamiliar to have the continued and unasked protection of people he was beginning to see as friends. Yes, uncomfortable though it may be, it felt oddly… warm. In an attempt to reassure Hermione, he simply replied with his usual blank-faced frankness that he was perfectly fine and having her stand guard over him would be unlikely to assist adequately should the need arise. 

After nearly two weeks, it was only after an accident-driven incident that Hermione begrudgingly agreed to leave her charge to the Slytherin. 

Observing with heated anger as Draco launched another sparkling spell Harry’s way, the Gryffindor girl folded her arms across her chest and tapped her wand on her elbow threateningly. Even from Harry’s newly acquired position clutching to the edge of a table, he could feel the fury radiating towards the blonde boy across from him.

‘Perhaps attempting to actually teach him something instead of simply launching hexes at him would be more helpful, Malfoy.’

Draco smirked sardonically, raising an eyebrow over heavy lidded eyes. ‘Shut your trap, Granger. We know what we’re doing. Harry is learning this way. As him, he insists.’

The eyes of Hermione and her ever-present Gryffindor friends turned towards him as though seeking clarification of the assumed accusation. Harry, fighting his exasperation over Draco’s pretence – he could positively see the amusement radiating from the other boy at Hermione’s suggestion – only shrugged. ‘Just watching helps, I think.’

‘See?’ Sending a shimmer of blue sparks towards his partner, Draco reversed the spell that had sent tingling vibrations down Harry’s limbs and effectively incapacitated him. Harry hauled himself to standing once more, placing feet firmly on the ground, none the worse for wear.

‘Malfoy, you could at least work on defensive spells a little. If Harry is trying to repel your attacks, he can’t very well reciprocate with offensive-type spells. You’re effectively teaching him nothing.’

‘That’s because he’s a selfish git who enjoys watching others fall when he pushes them,’ Neville growled, Ron nodding in agreement.

‘True, Longbottom, but if it works for both of us I hardly see a need to change the circumstances.’ The blonde boy raked fingers gently through his hair, the picture of ease and aloofness in the face of the Gryffindor’s loathing. Harry was fairly certain only he saw the slight smirk for what it really was; if only Hermione, Neville and Ron knew just how much Draco thrived on their anger, they would surely strive to avoid such confrontations.

The Slytherin waved a hand at the trio, dismissing them as one would recognised inferiors. Turning back to his punching bag, his lips twitched in what Harry could only assume was recognition of his own amusement, mirroring that of Draco’s. Surprising, that; Draco often seemed as perceptive of Harry’s emotions as Harry was himself. ‘You might want to take a step forwards for this one, Harry. You’ll likely go flying backwards a few feet.’

A hiss from the onlookers turned both partner’s heads. ‘Dammit, Malfoy, any sort of propulsion charm directed towards another person is dangerous indoors. You know that, you bloody idiot.’ Neville had taken a step forward, placing himself at Hermione’s side and glaring menacingly at the object of his loathing.

Draco snorted, waving his hand again at the seething Gryffindors. ‘Oh, do be quiet, Longbottom. I, unlike some, know exactly what I’m doing when I raise my wand.’

Twin growls emitted from both Gryffindor boys. Ron was the one to voice his complaint this time. ‘Yeah, I’m sure. At least you have something, right, since you so marvellously fail at sitting a broom. It must be embarrassing that the Slytherin quidditch team had to keep you on. How much do you have to pay them for their continued allowance, Malfoy?’

Harry couldn’t quite make the connection between Draco’s claim at academic skill and broom-riding abilities but even he knew that Ron had just stepped on dangerous territory. Draco usually focused solely upon course material when Harry talked to him, but even he could tell from the brief references to the baffling Wizarding sport that the Slytherin adored the game. He took great pride in him inclusion into the school team. 

It was hence no surprise that Harry watched the veild anger boil slowly to the surface. Draco still maintained his relaxed smirk, yet the rigidity of his expression spoke anything but calm. The amusement had spluttered and faded like a dying lightbulb. ‘Is that honestly the best you could come up with, Weasley?’

Sneering, Draco turned his attention back to Harry. ‘You ready, Defaux?’

Harry should have known from the use of his surname that Draco was improperly focused. But even had he recognised as much immediately he did not even have the time to shift forward the paces Draco had suggested before the blonde uttered a spell in clipped tones.

‘Propello!’

A force like a horse kicking him in the gut wrenched Harry from his feet. The gasps of the Gryffindors were jumbled with the whip-cracking snap of air rushing past his ears as he was thrown backwards into the air. Weightlessness, however brief, is always a horrifying feeling. In that split second, the brief moment he glimpsed the stacked desks and chairs approaching him at breakneck speed, he thrust outwards with a mental push while tucking his body protectively inwards.

The weightlessness of air-bound suspension abruptly ceased as Harry tumbled into the ground. The landing was remarkably soft, given the expected collision with hard, wooden furniture. It was more akin to the feeling of stumbling and crashing to the ground, which he was rather familiar with these days. Opening his eyes, which he hadn’t realised he had closed, Harry glanced around his surroundings. 

A sneeze met his newly acquired vision. He seemed to be cocooned in a bed of fine sawdust. Blinking rapidly, and raising a hand unconsciously to clear the dust from his glasses, Harry shook his head and rained wooden shavings from his fringe. Propping himself up upon his hand, he glanced at his surroundings. Dread settled in the pit of his stomach.

Where there had been half a dozen desks stacks with obsessive precision now lay only a haphazard mound of sawdust, speckled with finely ground glitters that Harry could only assume were the nails that had so dutifully held the sturdy tables together. Until now, at least. Ducking his chin to his chest, cringing, Harry gradually, awkwardly, clambered to his feet. Silence met his slow movements, a silence of the whole room. He couldn’t quite bring himself to raise his eyes.

Finally, a strangled voice broke through the silence. ‘Harry, I… Are you alright?’

Glancing briefly towards the blonde Slytherin boy that stepped with increasing speed towards him, Harry shrugged in reply. ‘Fine, I’m fine. But, um… the desks are, um…’ He dropped his chin more firmly onto his chest. How did that even happen? Why does it so often happen when I don’t want it to?

The sharp click of shoes striding towards him rung through the frozen stage of students with deliberate force.

‘Potter. What was that?’

The emotionless monotone was the only sound that filled the room. It seemed to echo in the hollowness of the open space. With physical effort, Harry forced himself to turn his eyes towards the darkly clad professor above him. A faint sneer curled Professor Snape’s lips, eyelids drooping heavily, a single eyebrow raised.

‘I’m sorry, sir, I didn’t mean to. I swear I’ll have more control of myself from now on. I was just a little unprepared and so…your desks, um… I don’t think I’ll be able to fix-‘

‘I was not referring to the state of my classroom, Potter. I am inquiring as to the spell you just conducted. Where did you learn such?’

Harry’s nerves, though still strung as tightly as a wound bowstring, halted in their gradual attempt to send him into a panic attack. Snape’s words were, if not kindly, lacking in the malice and coldness they had previously been interlaced with in his criticisms. Though disconcerting, coupled with the mild curiosity that glinted in the otherwise flat blackness of his eyes, Harry felt somehow eased.

‘I don’t really know, sir. I just… when I was hit by the spell it felt like the best option.’

‘Not to simply cast a protective charm around yourself?’

Harry shrugged slightly. ‘It was a little late to be thinking of that, Professor.’

Snape frowned, nose twitching as though tingling with an itch. ‘Yet you had the presence of mind to cast an impressive Reducto on my furniture and reduce it to smithereens.’

Harry opened his mouth to reply but found himself at a loss for words. How did one reply to such a statement? He remained silent, his fingers rising unconsciously to dig nails into his collarbones in a gesture of nervousness he barely even registered, and simply worked at maintaining an expression of composure. 

‘Were you even aware that such was the spell you were conducting, Potter?’

Another shrug. ‘Draco and I have discussed a number of offensive spells, Professor. I’m not sure. Maybe.’

Snape turned to look at the blonde boy standing at his side. Behind them both, frozen as though captured in a Muggle photograph, the entire class watched the exchange in rapt attention. He wasn’t sure if it was because of the spell itself or because he’d dared to reduce Snape’s tables ‘to smithereens’ as he’d described, but for whatever the atmosphere of mixed foreboding and awe only caused him to cringe further. Hermione had adopted an expression of shock that held nothing on the astonishment that played across Ron’s face, while Neville stared at Harry with a barely suppressed smile of approval. For Draco’s part, the young Slytherin was evidently in turmoil. His grimaced in an attempt to maintain his ever-present composure while something akin to worry threatened to spread across the smooth, angular planes of his face. ‘Draco, you were discussing high level curses with the new student?’

With perceivable effort, Draco shifted his gaze from Harry to his Head of House. The calm collectedness of the older man seemed to restore some of his frazzled control. He stroked a hand loosely through his hair, sweeping the fringe from his eyes and adopting an arrogant smirk. 

‘We are permitted to discuss as much, Professor, so long as we don’t practice it. And given Harry’s evident inability to cast offensive spells against others, I felt it held no harm.’ He shrugged. ‘Besides, Reducto is hardly an unknown spell.’

‘Indeed.’ The professor turned his attention to the fine coating of dust-like shavings that coated the floor. Harry shifted uncomfortably as the attention of every student in the class turned towards the mess. ‘Well, perhaps you would do well to remember when explaining the Dark Arts that Potter holds no such compunctions upon enacting them upon inanimate objects.’

With a wave of his wand, the sawdust slithered like a streaming river into a neat pile, compressed firmly and abruptly popped into a cloud of oaken-scented dust before dissipating. The Defence professor turned his piercing stare once more on Harry. Oddly, it was bereft of the anger or malice that Harry had been expecting. ‘Please refrain from attacking my furniture in future, Potter.’

At Harry’s hasty nod, Snape turned a scowl upon the rest of the classroom. ‘I don’t believe I permitted anyone to stop. Class is not yet half finished.’ Tapping feet and anxious whispers met his words, nearly drowning out the continued reprimand. ‘And Granger, unless you desire to forfeit your marks for this component of the coursework, I suggest you focus more upon your own studies than your endeavour to assume the role as a mother hen to our new student.’ 

An impressive sweep of his cape accompanied the turn of the tall man’s heel as he swept to the front of the classroom. The man seemed to effectively brush off the slight hiccup in Harry’s overwhelming incapability to perform Defensive magic and dropped himself back into his high-backed chair, head bowing over a bundle of papers. Harry and Draco turned towards one another, a faint, relieved smile and an amused smirk adorning each face respectively, before falling back into the rhythm of their classwork.

After that, though she still dragged her feet anxiously, Hermione and her Gryffindor bodyguards eventually agreed to allow the Slytherin and her charge the space needed for adequate practice. Harry suspected it was likely due more to the threat of failing in her own studies than any acceptance on her part.

As the weeks progressed, Harry felt himself become more and more comfortable with the routine of his Hogwarts life. Though Defence Against the Dark Arts sat at the top of his ladder of interests, rivalled only by Care of Magical Creatures for simply fascinating, he found himself developing a fondness for the art of studying magic in and of itself. What confused McGonagall to no ends, though Harry barely even deemed worthy of consideration, was how successfully he grasped the theory of many concepts yet seemed to fail completely in the practical, or conversely turned a trick on a high-level spell without an ounce of prior knowledge while his fellow classmates waded through practice as though slogging through mud.

Most prominently in his mind, however, was the constant presence of people around him that was gradually becoming less and less distressing and intrusive and more the norm. Though Harry doubted he would ever feel completely relaxed when in the midst of countless people, the breathlessness and jittery nerves that habitually accompanied forced interactions for his entire life had notably lessened since attending Hogwarts. He had even taken it upon himself to venture into the unnerving field that breached the boundaries of simply asking questions and, even more terrifying, continuing a conversation when initiated rather than remaining a hesitant recipient of questions and statements. Hermione herself had said it perfectly, though through gritted teeth; perhaps his partnership with Draco Malfoy was indeed beneficial to his education. He thought he saw it as such for slightly different reasons, however.

Harry truly did believe their companionship was educational. Not only from a magical and social development perspective but also from the viewpoint of simply learning through the eyes of one who, self-admittedly, differed so vastly in perceptions to the Gryffindors. Draco perceived the world around him through a very different filter to the ever-enthusiastic and positive-minded Lions. He appeared to view Gryffindors with distaste bordering on hatred, Ravenclaws with disgruntlement yet wary respect and Hufflepuffs with downright disdain. That was not to say it was all negative; Harry would have been disturbed had he been so prejudiced, but even Draco seemed to recognise that his fellow students did not fall so neatly into the categories of the houses. The turn of the first month saw Harry feeling comfortable enough with their relationship that he could quietly comment on the Slytherin’s statements without fear of degradation. 

‘All I’m saying is, had Slytherin been unavailable to me I would have undoubtedly been sorted into Ravenclaw. I know I’m smart. Maybe not up to the Raven’s standards, but smart enough. Thank Salazar he suited a house to me, though. I don’t think I could handle the bloodthirsty search for knowledge of the know-it-all blues.’

Harry cocked his head at the statement. He couldn’t for the life of him determine why Draco seemed to wish to hold discussions during their practice sessions but he let his curiosity slide into acceptance. The blonde youth often made such simple statements that seemed to require no response – his verbalisations appeared driven solely by the desire to talk. A lot. Harry was at first a little alarmed at how readily Draco seemed to disregard any form of contribution at times, though at times he could swear he saw a faint flicker of something like approval flare when he did respond.

‘What exactly do you find so distasteful about Hufflepuff?’ Raising his wand, Harry practiced a sweep of the polished holly in a graceful arc, marvelling once more at the pointlessness of the motion to accompany the spell. The function still made no more sense to him than it had four weeks prior.

Draco snorted in reply. ‘Seriously, Harry? I know you’re all accepting of that fluffy camaraderie the yellows seem intent on fostering in everyone, but surely you can also see how sickeningly sweet it is. Makes me shudder.’ Which he did, in exaggerated dramatics.

Harry felt his lips twitch in amusement. He frequently found himself responding as such in his conversations with the Slytherin. ‘Sickly sweet? That’s not exactly how I would describe it.’

Raising an eyebrow, Draco waved his wand in an intricate swirl with a muttered ‘Pedes lubricum’ before thrusting it forcefully towards his partner. ‘How would you describe it, then?’

Sinking inelegantly to the floor as his feet immediately assured him they were skating on ice, Harry clutched a nearby table. He no longer felt surprised at the feel of magic striking his body. Draco had so kindly assisted him in growing accustomed to such, accompanied as always by the ever present and more often than not disdainful comments. Well, at least Draco seemed to know he was being a bit of a prat. ‘I don’t really know. They seem sort of more…caring, I guess. Loving? I would bet that the Hufflepuffs have trouble casting offensive spells, too.’

A high giggle met his words. ‘Oh, too right, Potter! Ha, maybe you are a Hufflepuff after all?’

Turning in unison, both boys fixed quizzical eyes upon the dark-haired Slytherin witch watching their interaction with amusement. Pansy slouched lazily on the bench behind her, idly twirling her ebony wand between loose fingers and pointedly ignoring the resigned boredom emitting from Blaise Zabini. It appeared that the dark-skinned boy was familiar with the ease with which his partner lost focus.

‘You see something wrong with Hufflepuff too?’

Pansy shook her head at Harry’s question, though not necessarily in denial. ‘Wrong? Well, how can you really call it wrong when it’s a character flaw on such a fundamental level? The term ‘wrongness’ carries weighty connotations, that perhaps such wrongness can be righted.’ The girl shrugged, a predatory smile curling her lips. ‘Though I can’t say I wouldn’t try to warp a Hufflepuff if I was given the opportunity.’

She nodded her head, as though agreeing with herself in much the same way that Blaise slightly tilted his head and even Draco mimicked in dubious consideration. It was not the first time the witch had interrupted their practice session, nor in fact the tenth, but Harry still found her aggressive contributions disconcerting. Had she not been so obviously striving to insert herself some way into the conversation, by any means possible, he would have been downright disturbed.

‘You’d change them? To, what, become more vicious?’

Smirking as one would towards a particularly foolish child, Pansy shook her head. ‘No, not vicious. Cunning. There is a difference, my dear little ignorant. I would simply,’ she waved her free hand artfully in the air, as though casting a spell, ‘train their priorities onto a more suitable focus.’

‘And you think that cunning and pride is more important than caring, consideration and loyalty?’ Harry wasn’t sure exactly what he was saying. His words rung hollow in his ears and he felt like a marionette, speaking as though directed with no say in the matter.

Silence met his reply. Unconsciously, his fingers tightened on the wooden desk behind him, though the sudden absence of his incoordination informed him the hex had been reversed. The Slytherins frowned slightly, Draco’s face assuming an expressive curiosity that Harry had come to realise only ever appeared unintentionally on his face. He was obviously baffled. Harry was somehow saddened by the notion.

‘Potter, family is important – I mean, of course it is; society hinges on blood status. But in the end the most important priority is self-preservation, self-progression. Even the exultation of one’s family is ultimately with the purpose of maintaining one’s own status. I don’t know about your family but mine would always promote the character traits that most lent themselves to such progression.’ The girl had worked herself up like a coiled spring. Surrounded by largely like-minded Slytherins, it was evident that opposition of such opinions was a rarity and did not sit comfortably.

Harry dropped his gaze from the fiery stare. He did not dislike Pansy. She simply unnerved him and he immediately felt himself put on edge when he felt himself pinned by her gaze. She seemed to be trying for something, striving, as though forcing herself towards a goal, a persona, that fit her as well as a tennis ball in a triangle. Yet even knowing such, he couldn’t help the unexpected feeling of intimidation arose whenever the girl broke into his and Draco’s practice sessions. He would do his utmost to avoid her predatory stare, yet now, met by her coldness and conviction…

‘Self-preservation… You’d prioritise your own societal status, your progression, over affection for your family.’ He paused, swallowing down an unexpected upwelling of sadness. ‘But…what’s the benefit of living if you haven’t got anyone to protect, or anyone to protect you? What is the point of having skills that help you survive if you have no one to survive for?’ He dropped his chin further into his chest. ‘It seems a very empty life to me.’

The ring of Slytherins stared at him silently. Harry couldn’t determine their response as he kept his eyes glued fixedly to his shoes. Unexpectedly, his own words looped in painful cycles around his head. They seemed more of a self-reprimand than an accusation to his classmates. He had unknowingly punched himself brutally in the gut and was having difficulty recovering. He believed the words whole-heartedly, and the absence of such meaning in his life was…

A snort brought his chin back up. Pansy shifted her position uneasily on the desk, as though it had somehow grown uncomfortable in that brief moment of silence. Turning towards Draco, who stared with an oddly conflicted expression in Harry’s direction, she huffed and flipped her hair. ‘Definitely a Hufflepuff you’ve got yourself here, Draco.’ She smiled a tight-lipped grin as though seeking approval for her statement.

Draco barely spared her a glance. His eyebrows drew down slightly over grey eyes, the small line on his forehead appearing in contemplation. ‘I don’t mind. It’s good to have a different perspective sometimes.’

Both Blaise and Pansy snorted this time. Incredulity widened eyes and dropped jaws as they looked upon their friend in indignant confusion. Pansy was the first to recover. ‘Draco, my dear, I believe the new boy is corrupting you.’

Stepping forward, the Slytherin witch placed herself between Draco and Harry, effectively blocking their line of sight. ‘Right, Potter, obviously Draco’s methods aren’t provoking any results. You don’t even look put out when he knocks you over. I take up the challenge of drawing your offensive side out. Well,’ a forced smirk painted her face, ugly in its falsity, ‘if it exists at all. I have an idea. So, will you allow it?’

He wasn’t likely to admit his hesitancy aloud, but Harry felt himself shiver in the uneasy shadow Pansy cast him under. She was not a large girl, yet her self-assuredness seemed to set her looming ominously above him. Still, he swallowed and faintly nodded his head, attention focused rigidly on maintaining his guise of calm. ‘Sure, why not. If you think it will help.’

Pansy smiled in terrifying brightness, yet there was something nervous about her expression. She seemed… uneasy. ‘I’m sure it will.’ 

Harry was not assured.

Shrugging off the whispered scolding of her blond-haired friend, Pansy pushed Draco from the immediate vicinity and thrust the sleeves of her robe up around her elbows, arms raised majestically. Harry took a step backward before he felt grounded enough to hold his position.

‘You’re not even going to raise your wand to try and defend yourself?’

Harry shook his head briefly. ‘It wouldn’t do any good anyway.’

A bark of amusement pealed from the Slytherin girl’s smirking mouth. ‘So Hufflepuff, giving up before you even start.’ Without another moment she uttered her spell. 

‘Visio timora.’

For a moment, nothing happened. Harry felt himself nearly trembling in anticipation. Not a forceful thrust jolted him from his feet, nor the helpless weakness of the knees as his legs gave way. Not even, and in Harrys opinion the most terrifying, the gradual lethargy that weighed the body down to the ground in utter helplessness, tugging even eyelids closed into forced immobility. For a moment, nothing happened. 

Until the world shattered.

It was all so abrupt, like frozen fingers thrust suddenly into boiling water. 

Pain blossomed on old scars. 

New welts arose from the harsh sting of a leather belt. 

Angry yells of Uncle Vernon as he spat warm spittle into his ear, hand forcefully crushed his head to the floor. 

The faint yet familiar agony of singeing skin, crisped enough to shred the outer layer but too shallow to scar. 

A resounding crunch of broken fingers, the excruciating and gut-wrenching pain as fractured bone protruded through punctured skin.

Jeering, prodding, shrieks of morbid delight: ‘freak’, ‘disgusting’, ‘worthless’, ‘can’t pull your own weight’. 

The words resounding in echoing shouts that sharply contrasted to the surrounding darkness. 

Without the need of vision, Harry recognised the dank smell, the dusty timber, the cold chill that embraced him at winter as he huddled in the cupboard beneath the stairs. Even though he knew he was alone, dreadfully yet blessedly alone, he could somehow still feel the sting of a slapping hand, the booted foot connecting with his kidneys, the warm slither of blood as it dribbled over inflamed skin. His vision turned from the darkness of forced isolation to a vivid, pulsing red.

And worse yet, punctuating the brutal strikes… the soft – too soft – gentle caresses. 

The warm wetness of a tongue on trembling skin, the heated puffs of breath on his neck. 

His thighs ached as his knees were pressed to his chest and the depths of himself assaulted. 

Again and again, whispered breaths of possessiveness were broken by accusations of worthlessness, the hushed tones of sweetened malice contrasting in a violent symphony with outraged cries. 

Piled, one atop another, in an ever-growing mountain of a lifetime’s worth of memories, relived in the span of seconds that lasted hours.

He couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t suppress the violent shudders that wracked his body as shadow lips kissed and leather struck his body. The conflict of sensations, the aching torture of caress versus cuss, pain and possessiveness, nearly ripped him in half.

It was too much, too much, all at once and too much-!

‘…it, stop it, STOP IT!’

‘Dammit, Pansy, drop the bloody spell!’

Time stopped. Pain stopped. The phantom attacks stilled. For the span of a breath or the endlessness of a millennium, Harry didn’t know. Neither did he care.

Everything was frozen. Abruptly, without warning, leaving a painfully ache relief like a dislocated shoulder finally popped back in place. The blood red of his vision swam in roiling pools in his eyes before gradually drawing back to reveal a dim, blurry light. Someone was panting heavily, wracking sobs breaking the gasping breaths. Only when he realised the pants sounded in time with his own heaving chest did Harry realise they were his own.

Images began to form from the shapeless light shed into his bleary eyes. He was on the floor, the coldness of stone pressing firmly against his entire length. Tucked in a protective ball, his hands clutched tightly to his chest. Fingernails bit with familiar force into the skin of his collarbone, and his knees were drawn nearly to his chin. Through the curtain of his damp fringe, Harry could make out the sharp angles of the classroom tilted on its side, desks pressed against walls and dark curtains draped over windows. 

His head pounded in booming beats, the residual echo of pain throbbing in his temple and distorting his surroundings. They were wrong, skewed and broken, furniture fractured in mosaic-like pieces in a strange dull kaleidoscope of fractures. Figures dotted the desks, some atop and some beside, but all twisted impossibly as though cast like knucklebones from a clenched fist. It would have been almost comical to behold if his head didn’t hurt so much. 

The edges of the curtains that shrouded the windows were slouched haphazardly on their rungs, as though torn in half, and allowed a faint brightness to seep into the room. Harry had the energy to formulate the thought ‘ah, so that was where the light was coming from,’ before he thrust his surroundings forcefully from sight and sunk into the quietness of unconsciousness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Once again, thank you for the comments and compliments! I love every review so much I can't even say! And for those who have requested spoilers... Sorry, but I honestly can't bring myself to do that :)  
> I hope you enjoyed. I'll be posting again in another couple of days.


	7. Questions Unanswered

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Got a bit of a long one. Longest one yet by far. Hope you enjoy :)

His black cape billowing impressively in the wake of his long strides, Severus Snape powered with purpose through the corridors of Hogwarts castle. Only the loud ringing of his flat-heeled shoes striking stone floors accompanied his passage.

_Clip, clip, clip_

Outwardly, the man exhibited only cool aloofness. His face was a blank slate, eyes half-lidded and staring fixedly before him, mouth a hard line above his pointed chin. His beak-like nose, raised slightly alongside the rigidity of his posture, only enforced the regal nonchalance he emitted.

Yet inside, pacing in frantic circles of anger, his mind raced at a million miles an hour. Questions bubbled and hung in his head unanswered, building in force as they demanded explanation. Alongside the splitting headache that had been a constant companion for the past three hours, Severus was in a mood to tear the throat from anyone who so much as glanced at him sideways.

_Clip, clip, clip_

Unintentionally yet expectedly, the Defence professor’s mind traced back to the events of his sixth year’s class. He felt his jaw clench at the memory of both his own distress and his helplessness.

Foolish child, I would at least expect proper grammar from a fifth year. _Sighing, Severus touched his wand to the parchment, highlighting the spelling mistake in vibrant, angry red before setting the five-foot long paper to the side of his desk. He rubbed his eyes wearily in a motion disguised as clearing dust from lashes. He had mastered such gestures to mask his true weariness years ago. Yet even so, the desire to drop his head to the desk was growing more and more inviting. Perhaps his reputation would not be quite so tarnished if it were only the sixth years that heard him sigh in exhaustion._

_He didn’t even have to observe the students before him. He would never admit it, but Severus was more than satisfied with the level of skill the seniors demonstrated, especially given the hurdles of Defence professors they had been confronted with since the initiation of their tutelage. He worked at assigning three new spells a practical lesson and, though he feigned disdain for those that failed to achieve all three, was indeed satisfied with the success of those capable of even one of the spells._

_Now, if only he could bring up the pace of the new Potter boy…_

_As though drawn like a magnet to a lodestone, Severus felt his eyes slide to the dark-haired boy. Potter was slight, undoubtedly the shortest in the class, and had a way of holding himself that made one’s eyes graze over his presence in the room unless targeted specifically. The mop of thick, dark hair, so similar to that of his hateful father’s, was bundled loosely in a braid that he seemed to adorn himself whenever attending classes. Plain, black-rimmed glasses sat upon his nose and behind those, Lily’s eyes._

_The initial impression, of the glasses and the hair, had left Severus with the immediate recollection of his schoolyard nemesis, James Potter. It was only upon closer study that he came to the realisation that the boy resembled his father about as much as Severus resembled his own, both in appearance and disposition. Perhaps it was simply the distinct lack of arrogance but, if anything, he resembled Lily more. For that reason if nothing else, Severus found it impossible to maintain his immediate hatred towards the boy. If only his eyes were not so guarded, so wary; it would have been like looking into a window to the past._

_Eyeing the boy who stood in stock stillness across the classroom, Severus felt a frown settle faintly on his brow. The boy was tense, more so than usual, and a quick assessment of the situation alerted Severus to just the reason. Pansy Parkinson, one of his own, stood across from him. As he watched, the young witch smirked, raised her arms and spoke a comment inaudible across the buzz of the classroom, to which Potter shook his head. The girl’s smirk grew into a broad, predatory grin, and with an elegant sweep of her wrist, she uttered a spell._

_Severus could not discern the nature of the incantation immediately; it was not one that he had ordered practiced. The result of the spell was similarly unidentifiable, at least initially._

_That is, until all hell broke loose._

_Watching in fixated rapture, as though viewing a Muggle movie, Severus observed Potter freeze in sudden petrification. As though the blood were drained from his face, his cheeks became a sickly white that could have rivalled that of a ghost’s. Severus had just risen from his seat when an almighty shriek split through then air._

_Burning kittens were brought to mind. Or perhaps a lamed bird, cast flightless from the sky to spiral to its inevitable doom. Severus had never heard such a heartfelt scream of absolute pain and terror and the last person he would have expected it from was the quiet, unobtrusive Potter boy. He launched himself from his seat, pushing students that were frozen in shock and shrinking into their shadows under the piercing assault of the cry. Striding in a half-run across the room, Severus watched mind-numbing torture sketch itself across the boy’s face._

_Prior to that day, Severus had not seen more than a glimmer of emotion grace the immobile features of Lily’s child. The drawn brows, wide, terrified eyes, opened mouth and trembling lips; the hands that rose to claw welts into the paper-thin skin of his throat, across his cheeks. A full body shudder shook the boy where he stood, so violent that Severus wondered briefly how he maintained his feet._

_Evidently Draco wondered the same, or at least sought to relieve the distress as Severus did. Lurching himself from his own frozen stupor, the Slytherin boy wrenched a similarly petrified Pansy from his path and leapt towards the source of the shrill continuing cry. Reaching an arm out, face contorted in uncharacteristic worry, the boy stretched fingers to lock around the Potter boy’s arm-_

_‘NO!’ Severus boomed with echoing force to halt his godson’s flight, too far away yet to restrain him himself. ‘Don’t touch him-‘_

_Everything exploded. That was the only description Severus could term what happened next. Like a shockwave, the students in Potter’s immediate vicinity were flung halfway across the floor. A ripple effect shook the standing observers from their feet, Severus included. He could only thank the small mercy that cast him from his standing position as, lying on his back, he glimpsed a wave-like burst of flames sear scorching hot through the air where his head had just been. The room trembled as though experiencing an earthquake and Severus could not have regained his footing if he had tried._

_The splitting of wood and a faint sizzling noise drew Severus’s gaze to the desks lining the walls of his classroom. As he watched through eyes blurred by the turbulent vibrations, furniture split and the metal legs of chairs dissolved into a vaporous mist. The shredding of cloth flooded the room with light as curtains were torn from their rungs._

_Only when each desk lay crumpled in pieces and black fabric slumped from windows did Severus become aware that the shriek had muted. In its place, a frantic chanting in babbling sounds replaced it, nearly drowned out by a hurricane of wind that whipped with raging fury about the room. Shifting his gaze wildly once more, hands grasping the ground in an attempt to stabilise himself upon the shuddering floor, Severus struggled to raise his head and scan over the bowed, terrified figures of his students towards the boy now fallen into a protective curl on the floor. His fingers continued to rake bloody claw marks down his cheeks. Eyes clenched tightly closed and dribbled blood and tears onto the stone floor beneath him. His mouth moved in frantic mutters and only as Severus gradually hauled himself across the floor towards the boy could he determine he whispered in French._

_‘Desole, desole! Je ne vais pas le faire à nouveau. Desole, je jure que je serai mieux, desole. Sil vous plait, arreter, arreter, arreter-‘_ _The words resounded in Severus’ mind, heard but not comprehended. Dragged with forced slowness over the painfully hard floor, straining against the wailing gale, he croaked a feeble utterance to the Slytherin girl crumpled to the floor as he neared her._

_‘…ark…in…son. Stop….cease the spell…’_

_He may as well have been bellowing underwater for all the good it did. Yet once more, Draco appeared to be thinking upon parallel lines._

_‘Pansy, stop it! Reverse the spell!.’_

_Peering at the terrified witch, Severus watched the girl’s face plaster into an expression of miscomprehension. Draco may as well have been similarly speaking French for all the good his demands did. Seeming to once again reach the same conclusion as his teacher, Draco gestured wildly at the boy twitching spasmodically on the floor like a cowering rodent huddled in defence. The rapid pointing was followed by a vicious jerk of fingers across his throat. The message could not have been clearer: STOP._

_To punctuate the motion, Draco screamed another command that boomed in a wail akin to the howling wind. ‘Dammit, Pansy, drop the bloody spell!’_

_The Slytherin girl sobbed in desperation, but somehow still held the strength of will to point her wand shakily into the eye of the storm. A scattering of blue sparks erupted from the trembling tip of wood, darting like fireflies towards the huddled form and sank into his trembling shoulders._

_Abruptly, the wind ceased. Like the turning of a tap halts the flow of water, the pressure of the hurricane shut off as though it had never been._ _Pausing, spellbound in the sudden stillness, Severus panted in gasps of air before whipping his head around the room. His eyes grazed rapidly over the students, assessing for damage before moving onwards when none was found. Indeed, it appeared the main casualties were the furniture that now lay strewn in pieces like a splintered picture frame around the edges of the room._

 _Severus took a moment to ponder Potter’s aversion to his upholstery before he heaved himself to his feet._ _His legs felt like they had been struck by a Jelly-legged Charm. Stumbling in an unfamiliar display of awkwardness, the Defence professor made his way the final distance between himself and the fallen boy. Behind him, as though shaken from their terror, faces turned and students eased themselves onto knees and feet hesitantly. Fear and confusion coloured the room in visible shades._

 _Ignoring the evident distress of his students, Severus crouched over the trembling boy. His face was a deathly pale, the marks his fingernails had drawn down his cheeks oozing dark blood in slow pulses. Faint puffs of breath blew into hands that now clawed at his collarbones in worrying ferocity, as though gripping a lifeline. The boy looked so fragile, so unutterably feeble, that Severus was at once baffled and terrified by the distinct difference between the trembling creature and the display of power. For the first time, he considered the possibility of the boy actually conducting the time-freeze over suburban Paris nearly five months ago._ _Squatting onto his haunches, Severus made a split decision. Only a moment of hesitancy, his deeply ingrained caution rearing its head, before he touched the boy’s shoulder._

_No response._ _A gentle shake similarly failed to trigger a reaction._

_Turning towards the trembling Slytherin witch behind him, currently huddling behind Draco who stood positively twitching in agitation, he assumed a tone of calculated coldness. ‘Parkinson, what spell did you conduct precisely?’_

_The girl clenched her eyes shut, trembling more violently even than boy on the floor beside Severus. Her lips blubbered as she struggled to enunciate. ‘J-J-Just a_ Visio timora _, Professor. I-It shouldn’t have had that sort of r-response. I… Everyone knows it just plays on memories of the p-p-past…’ She swallowed audibly. ‘It s-shouldn’t have been any worse than a Bo-Bo-Boggart!'_

 _Severus felt a scowl twist his lips. It was perhaps beneficial that Pansy kept her eyes clenched tightly as he feared she would lose control of her bowls had any further nudge shaken her._ _‘Memories of the past… Foolish girl. One does not conduct such a spell without either knowing the subject’s past on an intimate level or desiring the possibility of inflicting serious mental damage!’ He huffed in frustration, turning from the girl and back to Potter lying helplessly on the stone floor. He had not moved an inch, and the trembling looked to be worsening. He was likely going into shock._

_Making a rapid decision, Severus slipped his arms beneath the boy’s shoulders and knees and rose once more to his feet. Had he been any larger, coupled with the faint tremors that still shuddered through Severus’s legs, he would have been unable to carry him. As it were, the boy weighed barely more than a child half his age._ _‘Class is dismissed. Be about your way.’_

 _Ignoring the wary glances, the curiosity surfacing in the eyes of the onlookers, Severus swept from the classroom in the direction of the hospital wing. He was unsurprised when Draco, Granger, Longbottom and Weasley followed, but did not shun their accompaniment. He had more important things on his mind._ _Clip, clip, clip_

Severus's scowl deepened as the memory replayed itself in frightening detail; little else had crossed his mind in the last two hours as he had presided menacingly over Poppy Pomfrey, restraining a hiss of distaste as she bustled in clucky protectiveness over the boy lying unconscious in her care. He knew he could have left Potter in her more-than-capable hands without having to watch her every move like some overprotective she-wolf, but something kept him within the silent, white-washed rooms of the hospital wing. Possibly the quartet of sixth years outside the double doors, waiting quietly but with deafening anxiety for any details as the welfare of their classmate.

The Gryffindors Severus could understand. A trademark of their house was persistence to the point of stupidity; such faithfulness to a boy they barely knew was not unexpected. He was, however, startled by Draco's continued presence. It had confused him at first, the all-too-obvious lie his godson had fabricated to cover his offer of assistance to the new boy, but he had gradually let his suspicions die with time as no overt developments were made. True, the blonde boy had shown remarkable amicability for his little punching bag, as much as a Slytherin could while maintaining face. It had amused Severus, not to mention triggered a wave of relief that the gradual descent into depression he observed in his godson was placed at least temporarily on hold.

Still, he hadn't expected the boy to express concern, even terror, on another's behalf; there was simply nothing else the emotion could be labelled with what had driven Draco flying across the room to grab protectively at Potter's quaking figure.

_Clip, clip, clip  
_

Shaking his head in disgruntled bafflement, Severus turned the final corner into the wide corridor adorned only with a hulking gargoyle embedded in the wall and candle-bearing sconces. The gryphon-like creature glared menacingly at his approach, disconcertingly following his movements as he approached with granite eyes. Severus allowed no evidence of being cowed to show and simply halted before the hunched statue.  
                     

'Butterscotch Beserkers.'

Severus could have sworn the gargoyle smirked at the inane nature of the password before leaping aside gracefully and revealing a spiralling stone stairwell. Taking steps two at a time, he rapidly ascended, accompanied only by the light taping of shoes, and thrust the heavy oaken door inwards without ceremony. The handle collided with a jarring BANG! onto the wall as it swung with unnecessary force.

'Severus. I was beginning to wonder where you were.'

Dumbledore’s calm welcome only served to elicit Severus's infamous scowl. The nerve of the man, to expect his presence when he had not even requested his attendance. Striding with deliberate slowness into the room, the Defence professor stationed himself against the wide mahogany desk, looming slightly before the elderly headmaster. He completely disregarded the Gryffindor Head of House that sat silently to the side of the desk, observing his approach from the comfort of her plush red armchair.

'What is the meaning of this, Dumbledore?'

The old man dropped his chin, peering pale blue eyes over the rim of his half-moon spectacles. Flickering his gaze to his Deputy, the Headmaster and his subordinate exchanged a long stare, holding a silent conversation that only served to heighten Severus' disgruntlement. With a slight nod, Dumbledore held out a hand towards the twin empty armchair across his desk.

'Take a seat. We were just discussing as much.'

Considering at first refusing the offer, Severus finally ceded his rigid pride and eased into the red cushions. Arguing would have only lengthened their unfortunate yet necessary exchange. 'Tell me.'

McGonagall spoke as though continuing a discussion already initiated. 'It took about five minutes for the vibrations to stop. No one was injured, but several shelves had collapsed and cracks crossed the floor. Leaving my classroom, it took me another thirty minutes to identify the source of the occurrence. The dungeons are, after all, at the opposite end of the castle to my own rooms.’

The woman cleared her throat, wetting her lips before she continued. 'When I entered the dungeons, they were in uproar. The students were positively buzzing with excitement, as though Christmas had arrived early. Severus's rooms were in a state, but the children appeared unworried. They are remarkably resilient; as with any display of impressive magic, so long as no one gets hurt it generally leaves most observers more in awe than concerned over their own wellbeing.

‘I questioned several of the more rational students. Mr Thomas eventually gave me an adequate explanation. It appears that Harry was struck by a hex of some sort and was affected adversely, releasing a burst of power that effectively dismantled the room around him yet blessedly failed to injure his peers. Mr Thomas seemed quite enthusiastic over his speculations as to the nature of the hex, but I do think he was worried for his classmate.

‘Ensuring that all was calmed and the children leaving for their dormitories accordingly, I hastened here. Other than that, I have only my own educated guesses. I did not visit Poppy, as I assumed Severus would have everything in hand.’

Dumbledore was nodding in agreement. ‘As I am sure.’ Turning towards the Slytherin Head of House, Dumbledore quirked an eyebrow. ‘If you would, Severus?'

Severus’s lip curled at the Headmaster’s words; it wasn’t really a question, and though he would have relayed his observations anyway it still irked to follow Dumbledore’s instruction. ‘Minerva is quite right on most counts, save that it was not a hex. Miss Parkinson conducted a _Visio timora_ upon Potter with what I can only assume was the intention of spurring a defensive response from the boy. The results were… rather explosive.’

To both Minerva’s and Severus’s surprise and disgruntlement respectively, Dumbledore smiled. A small smile, yet one that conveyed his amusement nonetheless. ‘I believe such a term is appropriate, yes. Ah, a _Visio timora_ …’ The man contemplated the situation, as though attempting to unravel a puzzle that basically spoke for itself

Minerva stated as much. ‘Albus, you cannot deny what this means. For such a spell to elicit such a response…’

‘Indeed.’ Severus nodded, for once in agreement with his fellow teacher. ‘The boy was terrified. Minerva, you will attest to his distinct lack of emotion as well as any other, yet the boy was hysterical, so much so that the careful control he constantly maintains upon his magic – even subconsciously, it seems – was shattered.’

Nodding in a mirror of Severus, Minerva continued. ‘Obviously, there was a trauma in his past. Something that we have not been aware of and as such will have difficulty discerning the source. But I believe… Perhaps it is too assuming of me, but I believe that it may in some way be inhibiting his capabilities in practical magic.’

The Headmaster was similarly nodding at this point. ‘So it would seem.’ He sighed, genuine sadness etching into his wrinkled features. ‘I feel that we have perhaps done a disservice to the boy. Though it is most likely an unavoidable accident from childhood that has manifested to draw such terror from him, I feel that we are somehow responsible for not ensuring the maintenance of his psychological and physical wellbeing.’

Thrusting her chin forward firmly, Minerva pursed her lips. ‘I will remind you, Albus, in the most respectful sense, that I wished for the boy to be placed in magical care until he attended Hogwarts. It would only have been right, given that Neville Longbottom was afforded the same. I am not an advocate of Muggleborn discrimination, yet even I can recognise that a magical child would achieve the most from an upbringing in a magical environment. Perhaps his reluctance to attend the school at eleven could have been circumvented.’

‘Quite right you are, Minerva. I too believe as much, yet will remind you of the times and the compromises we had to make. We were unsure as to which boy Voldermort had targeted; the scenes of both households showed his presence and both boys bore the mark of a direct attack. It is fortunate that Frank Longbottom maintained his capacity to care for his son, and that Neville could be raised in a Wizading household, but given the circumstances Harry was not. As the only relatives he had left, the Dursleys were the only appropriate choice.’

‘There were others! Remus would have-’

‘Can you honestly say that growing up in the household of a werewolf would have left him any better off, Minerva?’ Severus punctuated his words with a sneer of distaste for his old schoolyard nemesis.

‘Severus, if you would, please refrain from derogatory comments. Yet even saying as much, I do believe he has a point, Minerva.’ Dumbledore steeped his fingers before him, gaze rising to peer contemplatively over the rim of his half-moon spectacles. ‘Besides, at the time, attention was focused primarily upon Neville, for, though few, the signs indicated he was the primary target of the attack and Harry merely removed as a precaution.

‘But I digress. Revisiting the past and the errors of our ways does little for our current circumstances. We must attempt to unwrap the mystery that has presented itself, given that Harry may yet become a key player in the war against the Dark Lord. I know not what such a role should be, but…’

Severus glared at his superior, not even attempting to hide his disgust. The Headmaster frequently referred to his fellows as though pieces on a chessboard and, though he knew his perspective was tarnished by age-old bitterness, Severus could not suppress his loathing of the insinuation. ‘Of course. We would not want one of our knights tumbled from his horse, as it were.’

Minerva flashed him a startled glance while Dumbledore smiled faintly in amusement, not even a tinge of regret colouring his features. ‘Of course. Perhaps, Severus, if you would trouble yourself…’

‘What would you have me do?’

‘Pay a visit to Harry’s aunt and uncle’s house. And that of Stephen Defaux, if you would. Question them in an attempt to determine the nature of Harry’s distress.’

Face a blank mask of veiling indifference, Severus stared intensely at the Headmaster. ‘Question? Or question?’

‘No, Severus, merely the verbal kind. Legilimancy, even in the Wizarding world, is deemed inappropriate if not illegal save for medical or legal cases. To conduct as much on a Muggle is unforgivable. The same goes for the use of truth serums, I regret. Impressing a magical touch upon the mind and inflicting upon the body, there is a high likelihood of inflicting irreparable damage without the shield of a magical core.’

‘Naturally. I was unsure whether such a likelihood would withhold you from pursuing such a route.’

Unable to restrain herself any longer, Minerva sat forward in her seat and interrupted their banter, worry etched into her aged face. ‘Albus, perhaps I should go instead.’

‘Not at all, Minerva. Severus is more than capable of conducting the investigation himself. Besides, you are the professor most familiar with Harry. I believe your continued support would be just as beneficial as attempting to un-fog the mystery of his past. Wouldn’t you agree?’

‘Of course.’

‘Thank you. Then if we have nothing further to discuss…?’

Severus noted with distaste that the Gryffindor head and himself frowned in unison once more. The likeness of their responses was unnerving. ‘Headmaster, you seem to have overlooked the severity of the occurrence. Despite Minerva’s reassurances that my class was left more curious that disturbed by the event, I doubt all will be as forgiving and complacent.’

‘Ah, yes. Nothing to fear, I intend to remedy the fact by informing all students and professors of the incident at dinner. In muted tones, naturally.’

‘Naturally. And my classroom?’

‘Likely already seen to, Severus.’ Another smile crinkled the old man’s eyes, friendly yet by no means confusing anyone as to the nature of their relationship. ‘You need not concern yourself with the maintenance of the castle. The house elves in employ are truly professional in the highest regard. Rather, if you would be so kind, please attempt to pay a visit to Harry’s family at the earliest convenience.’

Rising from his seat, ignoring the twin rising of the Gryffindor head at his left, Severus nodded. ‘I shall attend to it immediately.’

Only as both professors were passing through the door did Albus relay his final parting words. ‘I would be most keen to gain your perspective on the incident, Severus. Perhaps when you return?’

Severus did not grace the amused words with an answer but instead swept from the room, leaving Minerva in the wake of his resounding retreat. _  
_

* * *

The faint melody, an odd tinkling of wind chimes and the whirring of a broken record, were only heard on the fringes of Draco’s consciousness. If the Vanishing Cabinet had not taken up the entirety of his vision, he would not have seen it at all. Even so, he had done little more than stare at the decorated wooden planes of the structure, eyes fixed on a particularly large splinter, since he had arrived in the room three hours prior. He hadn’t even opened the door in an attempt to initiate another likely unsuccessful revival of the antique.           

Sighing, Draco resigned himself to the realisation that, as in the days before, he would not achieve anything today. Such an outcome was even more likely today given that he had not even tapped into his sparse list of potential solutions to the mechanical problem. Not for the first time, he was surprised at his disregard for his own impending demise.

Damned Distractions.

Turning from the towering, ornate structure, his feet naturally found the path to the exit with no input from his brain; he had visited the room enough times that the need for attentiveness when seeking the escape from the cluttered room was unnecessary. Though perhaps such stimulation would have been a welcome reprieve from the monotonous tracks his mind seemed to be circling upon.

It was useless – he knew it. Somehow, over the past three days, little else had played on his mind. He had come to the conclusion that, somehow, Harry Defaux had come to mean something to him and the almost obsessive thoughts, the incessant worry that he was entirely unfamiliar with, were likely due to such feelings.

Draco could not remember ever genuinely worrying about another person in his entire life. Save for his parents, perhaps, but such anxieties were a constant when one was basically family of the Dark Lord. It was a package deal. He had never been concerned on behalf of a classmate before, and the experience was unnerving to say the least. Completely, horrifyingly distressing at worst. Even Blaise and Pansy had never elicited such worry from him before. Not that there had ever been adequate cause. An observer’s was the more familiar emotion that accompanied any distress on their part.

Heaving another sigh, Draco slipped through the door of the Room of Requirement and into the hallway beyond. Crabbe and Goyle, still garbed comically as wide-eyed first years – both girls today – glanced at him in unconcealed relief. He felt a twinge of sympathy for them, despite the necessity of their plight. It must have been uncomfortable for them to spend hours in another person’s skin.

‘I’m done for the day. You can go back to your rooms.’

The pair nodded in unison and turned tail, scampering with the eagerness expected of their disguises. Draco was unsure if their silence was merely a product of their natural quietness or a reluctance to speak with the voice of a high-pitched girl. Probably both.

As they seemed to have developed a will of their own today, Draco allowed his feet to lead him towards their desired destination. Contemplation, a revisit of the incident half a week ago, was replaying so vividly once more in his mind that he didn’t realise until he was outside the hospital wing to where he wandered. It was only a faint sniff that drew him from his reverie and alerted his to the presence of another.

Raising his head from their fixed gaze upon the floor, Draco felt a flicker of surprise at the sight of Pansy leaning listlessly against the wall opposite from the tall, thick hospital doors. The girl’s face was a blank mask, but the paleness of her skin and the faintly glazed sheen to her gaze spoke volumes. She had not been herself since the completely unexpected outcome of her curse and, though Draco was unsure if her snide remarks were entirely unmissed, he did pity her somewhat. It was the most remorse he had seen her express. Ever.

She hadn’t noticed his arrival, much as he had been initially unaware of her own presence. Clearing his throat, he afforded her a reserved smile at her comical startling. ‘Pansy. What are you doing here?’

The dark-haired Slytherin opened her mouth, closed it, and opened it in an uncharacteristic expression of awkwardness. Yet even in misery Pansy was not one for silence. ‘I…erm, I wanted to see how…’ She swallowed, clenched her eyes closed briefly and steeled herself. ‘I wanted to see if he was alright.’

Draco nearly gaped at that, only restraining himself with the realisation of just how hard she had pushed herself to vocalise her true intentions. Pansy Parkinson, caring what happened to another person. What was happening to the world?

‘They won’t let you in. Pomfrey isn’t letting anyone visit.’

‘Actually, she just let the Gryffindors in before.’ A familiar snort broke through her strained awkwardness, bringing with it an easing of the tension. ‘Trust them, really, to be here hanging around like a bad smell even before I was.’

‘They’ve been here every day since Harry’s been…indisposed. Or, well, at least one of them has.’

Pansy raised an eyebrow, attempting to drown her own worries in amusement. ‘And you would know because…?’

Ignoring the suggestive question, Draco turned and strode towards the door. He would not abide her taunting any longer, not when the doors to seemingly sacred territory were finally unlocked. Easing the well-oiled hinges inwards, he turned slightly to see Pansy step up to his side. The hardness of her face had returned and she worried faintly at her bottom lip.

The white room, tall ceilings offering a comforting openness to the otherwise stagnant air, nearly blinded Draco in its reflection of the evening sun streaming through the square windows. Empty beds and opened curtains lined both walls, the only occupant at the far end of the room and ringed by a trio of sixth years murmuring quietly to Madam Pomfrey. Striding with presumed entitlement down the length of the polished marble floors, Draco effectively stilted the conversation into wary silence by seating himself at the only remaining chair at the patient’s bedside.

Ignoring the heated stares of the Gryffindors, he turned towards the nurse, who met his heavy-lidded stare with surprise. ‘Madam Pomfrey. I was hoping you would inform me of Harry’s wellbeing?’

One could have heard a pin drop, and effectively did as the healer dropped her quill onto the floor. No one glanced at it, all eyes trained on Draco. The Slytherin boy sighed, thrusting aside his annoyance and accepting Pomfrey’s evident inability to respond.

Turning his attention instead to the boy lying in the bed, he allowed his face sink into a reserved frown. Harry looked hardly better than he had upon arrival, save that the horrifying self-inflicted welts on his cheeks and throat had been erased like chalk from a blackboard. The smaller boy’s skin was still a ghastly paleness and dark smudges graced the tops of his cheekbones, as though the glasses now resting folded at his bedside had bruised his skin. His hair was a tangled mess that still hung in a bedraggled braid, thick tendrils dangling forlornly across his face. His entire frame screamed fragility, from the faint quirk of worry drawn upon his brows to the foetal curl beneath the thin cotton sheets.

‘He’s still asleep.’

It was a redundant statement, yet Madam Pomfrey seemed to take it as a cue to finally break her silence. ‘Yes, such is the effects of psychological blows. The effects require an internal healing process; I can’t do much save assist in the physical healing without the risk of causing more damage.’

‘Ah, yes, I can see that you’ve taken care of him physically so well.’ Draco didn’t even attempt to hide the sarcasm in his tone, disrespectful as he knew it was. Harry looked haggard, to put it bluntly.

Pomfrey immediately reared, her haughtiness returning with intensity at the slight to her healing skills. ‘Mr Malfoy, I will have you know that his condition would be far worse had I not stepped in. I perceived, however, given that he withdrew from any touch I may have initiated, that it would be more beneficial to allow him to recover in his own time that attempt to alter his physicality for cosmetic purposes.’

The Gryffindors positively glowed under the biting remarks, a point that Draco deliberately ignored. He simply nodded his head, the picture of Malfoy composure, and met the healer’s eyes. Her disgruntlement would have been amusing if he didn’t find her incompetence so irritating.

‘Why is he still sleeping?’

Another huff of haughtiness. ‘Mr Malfoy, mental blows take time to heal. If you are sceptical as to the rate of his recovery, and believe it your place to continue disrupting the process, I will not hesitate in asking you to leave.’

Draco waved a hand, smiling benignly to assist the suggestion’s slip into oblivion. ‘That is unnecessary, Madam Pomfrey. I was merely asking after the wellbeing of my classmate. He was my partner in Defence Against the Dark Arts, after all. I’m sure you would understand I feel a little anxious over his recovery.’

Folding her arms, only slightly mollified, Pomfrey nodded. ‘Yes, well, it may take time. Be careful, mind! Even if he were to wake presently, he will no doubt be disoriented. I do not wish him to be bombarded with questions and unnecessary chatter. If I should consider for even a moment that you, any of you-’ with a jabbing finger, she pointed to all of them, Gryffindors included- ‘will infringe upon his recovery in the slightest, you will be out of this Hospital Wing and into respective Head Teacher’s offices. Am I clear?’

Apparently deeming the hasty nods and murmured assents adequate, the healer bent, picked her quill up off the floor, slapped her clipboard to her chest and departed the wary silence of the students. She paused in the doorway to her office, however, and glanced back momentarily.

‘I suppose I should inform you, since it is likely that you will be involved in such roles. Professor McGonagall has deemed it appropriate that Harry be left to himself only minimally when he awakes. Victims of mental trauma almost always recover better when in a social context as opposed to isolation. I don’t feel I need to request your assistance on providing such support.’

She didn’t even pause to acknowledge their nods before disappearing into her office. Draco wondered if he was the only one who noticed that her door didn’t swing entirely shut. He had neither the time nor the inclination to ponder her words, or the obvious supervision she still maintained, for the ensuing silence was abruptly shattered.

‘What the _hell_ are you doing here, Malfoy?’

Restraining a rolling of the eyes, Draco ignored Weasley’s venomous comment and turned once more back towards Harry. The boy had shifted slightly in the conversation, but still slept, the crease in his brow deepening slightly. A faint rustle at his side alerted him to Pansy’s near-silent approach.

‘What the _hell_ are you doing here, Parkinson?!’ Horror, more apparent this time, lathered the red-head’s words, mirroring that glimpsed on the faces of his friends that Draco barely heeded in his periphery.

Pansy paid as little attention to the question as Draco had. Easing herself onto the arm of his chair, she peered with false calm yet genuine curiosity at the sleeping figure. The tension thrumming through her body was likely only perceivable to Draco, who made a point of overlooking it. If the girl had worked up the courage to visit the sorry victim of her volatile anger, she deserved to mull over her regrets without having them cast into the open.

‘He really sleeps like the dead, doesn’t he?’

‘Yeah, no thanks to you.’

Even Weasley seemed to cringe at his own words. Longbottom, apparently with a hold on his own anger, shifted uncomfortably in his seat, while Granger closed her eyes briefly before glaring at her friend.

Pansy, for her part, admirably attempted to smother the flinch with a flick of her hair. The following uneasy silence made it apparent that no one was falling for the ploy however, and so she swallowed deeply, dropped her eyes to the floor and licked her lips.

‘I…um… I feel that I should… What I mean to say is…’

No one broke into her attempts to articulate. Draco graciously allowed her the privacy of her internal war by fixing a stare upon the Gryffindors, daring them to comment on her fumbling. Slytherins were generally deemed openly unaffectionate, which he had to concede was largely true, but even he could admire a struggle with pride when he saw one and would assist if possible.

The three Gryffindors apparently felt as much also. Granger had assumed a mask of patient curiosity, Longbottom attempted to hide his discomfort by picking at his fingernails, and Weasley had an expression that bespoke nothing if not serious bowel discomfort as he fought to suppress his innate response of crushing the Slytherin like a persistent mosquito.

‘I… sincerely regret how I acted. It was in the heat of the moment, and had I suspected that he would have responded so…negatively, I’m sure I would not have done it. I wouldn’t wish that sort of pain on anyone, not even…an enemy.’

Draco wasn’t sure if the other occupants of the room were as aware of the gravity of her words as he was. Pansy had obviously undergone some kind of epiphany in the backlash of the incident, something that had ground down her protective walls that preached ferocity and hard-heartedness. She had realised she was not capable of injuring another person. Such a realisation would tip her world on its axis, especially considering her own family’s more elicit dealings. Not to mention their expectations for her. Draco felt pity rekindle for his friend once more, and something else. Empathy?

‘Yeah, well, it’s a pity you can’t take back-’ Weasley’s words were abruptly cut short in an ‘oomph’ as Granger’s elbow connected with his side. Rubbing the rising bruise, he glared at his friend.

Granger didn’t notice. She was staring at Pansy with something akin to respect, though clearly knew such a response would trigger nothing but horror from Pansy for she hid it fairly well. ‘I think that is something you should tell to Harry, not us.’ She smiled faintly. ‘I don’t think you’ll have to wait long. Pomfrey said he’ll probably be waking up this evening. That’s why we were allowed in for a visit.’

Pansy, eyes still locked on the floor, nodded. ‘I know.’ Draco thought that was probably the shortest sentence he had ever heard Pansy voice.

An awkward, but not necessarily aggressive, quietness hung over the visitors. None commented on the pointlessness of their waiting, or queried how long they would remain until it became apparent Harry would not wake up that day. Draco was perfectly content to merely sit in silent contemplation, marvelling over Pansy’s complete one-eighty, and Pansy seemed as lost in her own thoughts. Granger had settled herself into her uncomfortable chair, a thick novel propped on her knees and curly head bowed over it. Weasley and Longbottom had resorted to a hushed conversation, too quiet to be heard by the Slytherins, though Draco had seen Weasley raise his shirt slightly to show his friend the rather impressive bruise blossoming on his ribcage. He fought to keep the smirk from his face.

Unexpectedly, it was Pansy who broke the silence. Raising herself from her half-seat on the arm of Draco’s chair, she took a step, two steps, closer towards Harry. It was a mark of the Gryffindors’ restraint that none moved to impede her movement, though Longbottom and Weasley obviously felt uncomfortable at her approach.

A quizzical frown furrowed Pansy’s forehead. ‘Why does he have a cat in his bed?’

Nearly barking with laughter, Draco raised himself slightly from his seat and peered more closely at Harry’s curled form himself. Indeed, the tufted ears of the little black cat could be made out from beneath his chin, clutched like a child holds a stuffed toy. He wondered idly if the creature was still alive, being crushed as it were in an unconscious embrace.

‘Harry did say it follows him everywhere.’ A smile that was definitely not fond graced his lips. Not snide, for sure, but definitely not fond. Of course not.

‘Madam Pomfrey said she tried to force her out of the room, that she was unhygienic and all. But every time she closed the door on her, she would turn around and the cat would already be back in his bed again.’ Granger spoke with surprising civility, smiling fondly herself. ‘I think she actually helps him. What was her name again…?’

‘Lyssy.’ The name Draco uttered came from nowhere, speaking itself. He would have bitten his own tongue off if he suspected he wouldn’t come to regret the future lack of speech. Still, he would have to keep a tighter rein on his words; familiarity that bespoke friendship seemed to slip out of its own accord.

As it were, the name seemed to alert the little cat to the presence of those gathered. A wiggle of movement and a small, shadowed face appeared from beneath the sheets. Wide green eyes, pupils dilated to compensate for the dying evening sun, moved with strangely human contemplation around the ring of onlookers. Finally, apparently deeming them unworthy of attention, she slithered out from Harry’s embrace and stretched languidly, hair bristling along her spine and yawning with a faint squeak. Apparently satisfied with her display, she turned back towards her human, placed a single paw on his cheek and gave a very deliberate nudge.

‘Oh! Lyssy, no, don’t wake him up!’

Granger lunged forwards, scooping the tiny cat into her arms to an indignant meow. The damage had been done, however, for with a faint, sleepy sigh Harry fumbled his way into wakefulness. Rolling onto his back, fingers plucking at the lip of the sheet to flick it from his chest, his eyelids fluttered briefly in an attempt to open.

 _He has really long eyelashes. I never noticed before. Probably the glasses…_ For some reason, the thought didn’t trigger the ever-reading flurry of self-reprimands. Apparently his internal Proper Malfoy Heir was dormant at the moment.

Said glasses were in the boy’s hand before he had even opened his eyes, thin fingers grasping them from his bedside and sliding them onto his face with practiced movements. It was a little impressive, how, even in an unfamiliar environment and barely conscious, he moved so accurately to seek them out. A moment later, he opened his eyes, blinking rapidly behind the wide lenses. He stared around the ring of visitors, his face already fallen into its customary blankness, not offering the slightest surprise even when his eyes grazed over Pansy. Draco had to admire him for that.

No one spoke. In the back of his mind, Draco suspected they all expected Harry to be the one to break the silence. It was an unrealistic assumption, really. Draco didn’t think Harry had ever started a conversation intentionally.

Granger finally spoke up, leaning forward and placing the grumbling cat upon Harry’s lap. ‘Sorry. We didn’t think she would wake you up.’

Harry shrugged, offering an expression that didn’t change yet somehow still conveyed kindly acceptance of the Gryffindor girl’s words. ‘’S okay. I’ve been sort of in a doze for the last few hours now. Just couldn’t…wake up fully yet.’

Everyone shifted uncomfortably at that. Or, well, everyone except Draco. Malfoys did not fidget, _especially_ when uncomfortable. Malfoy One-O-One.

‘Oh, well that’s…’ Granger seemed to reach the end of her tether, unable to continue the façade of carelessness in the face of Harry’s wakefulness. She dropped her gaze to the open book in her lap, catching her lip between her teeth.

In a show of uncharacteristic chivalry, Draco dove in to remedy the situation. ‘Harry.’ The name certainly achieved drawing the boy’s attention from the distressed girl. ‘How are you feeling?’

A shrug, no more response than if someone had asked offhandedly how his day had been. ‘I’m fine. Thanks.’

‘Well, that’s good. Do you think you’ll be able to make a move?’

Frowns all around the room trained upon him. The question was hardly expected, and not the route one would typically take when nursing a sick friend back into the land of the living. Harry was the only one who seemed unsurprised at the suggestion.

‘Malfoy, don’t be ridiculous. He only just woke up.’

‘Dammit, Slytherin, are you a slave driver?’

‘Draco, I really think that-’

‘Okay.’

Accusations abruptly ceased at Harry’s single word. Startled gazes fixed on the patient before them, each mouth twisted in discontent as they all fought to squash the need to force their ‘care’ upon the boy.

Draco could barely suppress his smirk of satisfaction. ‘Then, I speak from experience when I say you should definitely leave before dinnertime. I don’t know why they do it, but the house elves seem to make sure they uphold the stereotype that hospital food tastes like crap.’ Standing, he smiled sardonically at the boy lying on the bed before him. ‘I think it’s about time you join us in the Great Hall, don’t you think? You’re certainly the hype of the student body at the moment.’

Harry’s face seemed to shut down, glazing over even further at the suggestion. Draco wondered momentarily if he had pushed his luck; he would admit at least to himself that his relief over the boy’s awakening had given him confidence enough to ask. Perhaps he had gone too far.

‘I don’t think…’

‘Please, Harry?’ Granger had regained the capacity speak once more. ‘It would be really great if you could eat with us. If, you know, you feel you’re well enough to get out of bed. Besides,’ and her tone took on a bookish pompousness that often accompanied the precocious answering of questions in the classroom, ‘Pomfrey and McGonagall have both said you have to be around other people when you eventually wake up. So it’s either we stay in here and you subject us to Malfoy’s reportedly dissatisfying dinner, or you’re coming with us.’

By the end of her speech, Draco was staring at the girl in concealed astonishment. He had frequently found the sixth-year know-it-all to be anything but endearing, yet her demanding attitude and accompanying consideration was oddly appealing.

Thrusting the thought aside with a mixture of confusion and belated self-disgust, he added his own urging. ‘You can hardly argue with that, Harry. Surely you wouldn’t subject your poor classmates to such a fate.’

It wasn’t quite a smile, not even the ghost of one, but the shadow seemed to retreat slightly from Harry’s face. Draco felt oddly pleased with himself for being able to draw what little expression the boy seemed able to give out from behind his mask. It concerned him, surprisingly, that undoubtedly due to the incident, the boy’s meagre expressiveness had been once more diminished.

‘Well, I guess I can’t argue with that.’

* * *

The urge to Ask was nearly overwhelming. It niggled at the forefront of Draco’s mind like a persistently itch that only seemed to grow more irksome the longer it was ignored. Draco resolutely thrust the steadily growing pile of queries from his forethought once more and turned towards the small group of classmates beside him.

If he had lacked the strength to ignore the desperate curiosity, the _need_ to understand just exactly had driven the starkly blank-faced boy into a screaming, writhing figure of tortured distress, the bowed head and slumped shoulders of his silent companion would have clamped his lips shut. That odd protectiveness, one he realised he’d experienced on more counts than he could remember but until now hadn’t quite been able to identify, welled once more. Draco had to fight the urge to pat the boy on the arm, on the head even. Anything to express even a modicum of comfort.

He didn’t attempt as much, however. Harry’s perceivable flinch as Granger had linked her arm through his own, the frequent flickers of uneasy eyes to their locked elbows, spoke of his discomfort at even such a harmless touch. Annoyingly, despite her intelligence, the Gryffindor girl hadn’t seemed to notice. Draco settled himself for remaining silently on the dark-haired boy’s other side, providing a pillar of support and stability amidst the forced jovial chatter of the Gryffindors and the not-quite-sullen quietness of Pansy to his left. He resolutely ignored the niggling questions of ‘what’ and ‘why’.

It was strange, truly, how they all seemed to gravitate around the boy in a cocoon-like shield of attempted support. If Draco was to have observed it as an outsider, he would have perhaps assumed the attachments they had all formed to the new student, throwing a group of highly unlikely individuals into close proximity, was a magical phenomenon. He refused to believe as much, however, and instead maintained his silence as they passed through the halls towards the gradually strengthening aroma of dinner.

It didn’t prevent the stray queries, however, from elbowing their way to the surface of his thoughts. How on earth had Draco landed himself with such an oddball? An oddball that he seemed remarkably unable to detach himself from?

They must have made a startling display upon arrival at the Great Hall. As the small group of sixth years entered through the double doors, the animated chatter hushed rapidly to a buzz and then silence, all faces turned towards the new arrivals.

Draco positively glowed in the attention. He would be the first to admit he bathed in limelight as though it were a warm bath, and relished every second of it. Even if such attention was due to the unexpectedness of his accompaniment, he could hardly complain. There was just something so satisfying about drawing every eye in the room.

His Defence partner, and current charge of sorts as Draco was starting to perceive him, evidently felt otherwise. Not even raising his eyes from staring fixedly at the floor, the small boy remained immobile beside his accompanying Slytherins and Gryffindors. Not for the first time, Draco wondered exactly why it was that Harry had never once eaten in the Great Hall. He thrust the thought aside however, turning his attention back to the present. Such ponderings only led to more substantial concerns, such as exactly what memories could cause a person to subside into an hysterical state.

Planting himself in front of the boy with the bowed head, Draco tilted his head to the side and raised an eyebrow questioningly. ‘Though I don’t doubt your abilities to eat while standing, it is slightly more comfortable to seat yourself at a table.’

Green eyes, that mysteriously glassy expressionlessness, peered through fringe and over spectacles at the taller boy. Harry blinked once, pausing in an eternal moment, before shrugging and stepping to Draco’s side.

The Slytherin breathed out a sigh he hadn’t realised he was holding; since when had he become as lenient as to make requests instead of orders? Not that the comment could really be called a request, but still. Raising an arm behind the dark haired boy, leading but not touching, Draco started towards the Slytherin table.

As they made their way through the now-whispering audience of students, Draco directing Harry towards where Blaise slouched on his bench with an expression of bemused bewilderment, the blonde was almost surprised when he felt a finger prod his shoulder from behind. Turning with deliberate slowness, he glanced at Weasley smouldering in an intimidating loom over his back. A smirk twisted his lips.

‘Problem, Weasley?’

The red-head ground his teeth in an audible grate. ‘He’s not gonna sit at the table with you snakes, Malfoy. What the bloody hell are you thinking?’ The words were evidently meant to be quiet, but from his periphery Draco spotted a few onlooking students frown in confusion and lock the pair in their gazes with heightened intensity.

‘Oh? And where else would he sit?’

‘At our table, of course! With the civilised people!’ If it was possible to shout in whispers, Weasley was giving a near-perfect demonstration.

Turning with the same deliberate slowness towards Harry, Draco raised a questioning eyebrow once more at the boy who had stilled at his side, staring with vague curiosity at the two of them. Behind him, he felt Pansy resume her place within arms-reach, glimpsed the Gryffindors sidle up to Weasley with frowns upon their faces. ‘But I won’t sit at the table with a bunch of arrogant do-gooders, and as I was the one to suggest Harry accompany me to dinner, I feel that it would be best that I act as his guide. That includes sitting with him. Unless you have a problem with that, Harry?’

The dark-haired boy stared at Draco for a moment, expressionless and still in his familiar silence. For that moment, something like dread itched inside Draco’s gut. Wait… had he overstepped?

Harry finally shrugged one shoulder, turning towards Weasley. ‘I honestly don’t mind where I sit, Ron. I thought you wanted to sit together, but if you’d rather sit on the other side of the hall I don’t mind.’

A smile curled Draco’s lips, and he immediately beamed his triumph at the seething Gryffindor. Longbottom looked suitably annoyed and Granger had adopted an expression of weary resignation. ‘You’re more than welcome to join us, _Gryffindors_.’

The emphasis on the house name made it a dare. Stepping forward once more, Draco directed Harry to the Slytherin table, arranging himself gracefully beside the boy as they took their seats on the uncomfortable benches and nodding a greeting to a still-stunned Blaise. He didn’t miss the disgruntled ‘oi’ from behind him, but simply chose to ignore it. Pansy slid into the seat beside him.

‘Blaise, I believe you know Harry. Harry, Blaise Zabini.’

Perhaps it was a good thing that Blaise still seemed delayed in his bemusement and not yet up to the task of appropriately greeting his fellow student, as Draco doubted Harry would have shaken his hand. Instead, Harry nodded his head in a mimic of Draco’s own greeting. ‘Hello, Blaise. We’ve never officially met.’

The greeting seemed to finally draw Blaise from his stagnation. ‘Yeah, how ‘bout that…’ His amusement blossomed like an unfurling flower, only blooming more brilliantly as the trio of Gryffindors abruptly decided to join their party. Glancing above him, the young Italian bit his lip to hide a grin as Weasley and Longbottom stepped over the bench and plopped themselves down onto the seat beside him. His glee in their evident discomfort was simply radiating from his toothy smile.

‘Evening, _Gryffindors_. Such a delight, as always.’

The two youths visibly flinched, Weasley flushing and dropping his chin as though thoroughly ashamed of his decision. Longbottom, in a display of remarkable resilience, glared pointedly back at Blaise. ‘Shove off, Zabini. We’re only sitting here today ‘cause we don’t want to leave Harry alone in the snake pit.’ Blaise only grinned wider.

‘Oh for goodness sake, Neville, Ron, can you not find it in yourselves to hold your bickering for one night? Hmm? You’re making it uncomfortable for everyone.’ Granger, easing herself into the seat at Harry’s other side, frowned with maternal ferocity at her two friends before turning towards the spread on the table. ‘It’s no different to eating at our own table. No different at all.’ The reassurance seemed as much for her own benefit as her two friends, and she resolutely set her gaze upon the patterned wood as though fascinated by the unavoidable stains of countless mealtimes.

Draco struggled to bite back a smirk; they were trying, and as such it would not be appropriate to obliterate them in a maelstrom of verbal blows, raining upon their pathetic attempts at civility. Instead, he sat himself up straight, pointedly ignoring the stare he could feel Blaise begging to share with him, and reached across the table to load his plate with mashed potato. ‘Not that I’m sure your attempts to boost each other’s egos isn’t worth my attention, but I believe it’s time to break bread so to speak, hmm? Truce for the night?’

The comment, accompanied by a hazy wave of the potato-smeared ladle, seemed to ease the tension. Longbottom and Weasley apparently to forget their disgruntlement in their enthusiasm for a meal they had previously seemed to have forgotten, Pansy delicately began spooning peas onto her plate, and even Granger saw fit to raise her gaze from the table to take her pick of the selection.

It was only with a spoonful in his mouth that he turned to Harry and noticed the other boy hadn’t moved an inch since he had sat down. To Blaise’s ignorance, he remained the product of Harry’s attention as though as fascinating artefact. Draco suspected, however, given the even glassier sheen to his eyes than was usual, that Harry hardly perceived the boy across the table from him.

Biting back the frown of worry, the immediate welling of questions once more – what exactly had the boy seen, witness, _experienced_ , that had left him so shell-shocked? – he leant into the his ward’s side, placing his cutlery down on the table.

‘The food isn’t going to eat itself, you know.’

With a delayed reaction, Harry turned towards the blonde, fixing him with his stare. ‘Hmm?’

‘Dinner.’

‘Oh, yeah... Sorry, I’m not really hungry.’

Draco’s frown managed to impress itself in his forehead this time before he caught it and smoothed his brow. ‘That sort of defeats the purpose of us bringing you down here for dinner.’

‘You should really eat something, Harry.’ Granger, on Harry’s other side, had cottoned on to their hushed conversation and inserted her own quiet suggestion. A small, friendly smile, laced with knowing sympathy – though, honestly, what did she know? – shone upon Harry as he turned towards her.

Shrugging, as though accepting the inevitable, Harry dutifully began to scoop vegetables and potato onto his plate, veering from the streaming venison but otherwise adequately serving himself. Draco eyed him warily, resolving to keep a watch on his charge, before turning back to his own meal. Only to be interrupted by Blaise who, evidently, felt there had enough uncomfortable silence.

‘So, Harry, since I haven’t actually had the opportunity to speak with you so far, though it’s been nearly a month that you’ve been here: how are you enjoying Hogwarts?’ The tone could have been teasing, but Draco knew Blaise was honestly curious. Somehow the novelty of Harry Defaux still gripped the sixth years enough to elicit probing queries towards their new classmate.

Harry raised his gaze to the grinning Italian, shrugging. ‘To be honest, despite the fact that Professor McGonagall swore it would be very similar to my old school, I’m sort of out of my depth most of the time. It’s hard to keep up.’

Weasley snorted, though good-naturedly, around his mouthful of half-chewed meat, gravy dribbling across his chin. ‘You’re hardly out of your depth, Harry. I’d say acing it, more like it.’

‘Not really… I think my performance in Defence Against the Dark Arts is proof enough of that.’

‘That’s only one subject though, Harry. Otherwise, you’re doing remarkably well for someone who has only _just started_ learning magic.’ Granger offered another smile, a hint of pride replacing the previous sympathy. ‘It’s quite impressive, actually.’

Harry dipped his chin, a humble acceptance, though the slight dimming of Granger’s smile indicated that Draco wasn’t the only one that noticed Harry’s eternally blank expression remained. ‘Thank you.’

‘Still, if you feel out of depth, I wonder why Dumbledore and McGonagall decided to give you separate rooms. I would have thought it would be better for you to actually be around people who are at least familiar with the timetables and stuff.’ Longbottom idly stabbed a tower of beans with his fork, wedging them in his mouth and frowning contemplatively.

Granger nodded. ‘That’s true. The support of your peers and everything is important. Maybe they didn’t want to sort someone who was so old?’

‘So old, Granger? You sound as though you’re referring to a crippled senior.’ Pansy leant around Draco to raise an amused and faintly malicious eyebrow at the Gryffindor girl, drawing a flush from her cheeks. Draco nudged her, more in support than reprimand; it was good to see her with some of her malevolent spark back.

‘Ah, but that’s true! You haven’t been sorted have you?’ Blaise leaned eagerly across the table, face alight with interest. Draco could practically see his mind ticking over the possibilities and was abruptly reminded of the unforgotten bet the Slytherins had made weeks prior as to their speculated placements of the new boy. ‘Maybe you should. I think you should. It would be really interesting.’

‘Zabini, really? Get over yourself, Harry wouldn’t be sorted into Slytherin.’ Potatoes now taking the place of gravy muffled Weasley’s growl, a scowl directed to the boy beside him.

Longbottom nodded his agreement. ‘I’d say probably Ravenclaw, if I was to hazard a guess.’ He grinned to his friend as Granger nodded in agreement. ‘I wonder what Dumbledore would say if you asked to be sorted?’

‘He’d let you. He’d have to; it’s school protocol, and he’s going against the norm by _not_ sorting you.’ Pansy leant into the conversation, unable to withhold her own input even with the Gryffindors as the primary conversationalists. ‘Personally, I think you’d probably be a Hufflepuff. You said you thought they sounded…nice, didn’t you?’

Draco nearly burst out in laughter at the expression on Blaise’s face, surprise mixed with confusion as he registered the complete lack of malevolence in Pansy’s tone. Draco was mildly surprised himself, and he had seen her epiphany. She had apparently taken it as lore that Harry was untouchable territory for when she sought to wreak her havoc.

Turning instead to Harry, who had been silently switching his gaze between speakers, Draco nearly whispered his own contribution. ‘You could probably go wherever you’d like, if you just asked. I get the feeling McGonagall dotes on you a little.’ He smiled, to ease the suggested bite of the words. ‘We’d take you in Slytherin, of course, but where would you really like to go?’

Harry simply shrugged, turning back towards his expectant peers before speaking in his quiet voice. ‘I don’t really mind. I don’t think it’s going to happen though. McGonagall basically said I was set to board where I was, but other than that… I already tried being sorted. I think they’d probably have moved me already if they were going to.’

Silence ensued. Harry seemed utterly oblivious to the stupefaction he'd induced, eyes dropping back down to his plate and nudging peas around the ceramic surface.

Blaise was the first to recover, followed quickly by Longbottom. In remarkable synchrony, they exclaimed in unison: ‘Wait, what?’ They glanced at one another, startled.

Draco shook his head moments later, feeling his eyebrows rise to his hairline as he stared at Harry's abruptly lifted face. "You’ve already been sorted, Harry?"

Another shrug and a nod. Then more stunned silence.

‘Well don’t leave us hanging. What were you? Ravenclaw? It’s Ravenclaw, isn’t it? Or is it Gryffindor?’ Weasley nearly climbed onto the table in enthusiasm, elbows propped dangerously close to his plate.

Harry quirked an eyebrow ever so faintly, though that in itself was as much as a bark of laughter in another person. Draco found it, remarkably, quite satisfying to see even the ounce of expression. ‘It was Ravenclaw…’

‘I knew it!’

‘And Hufflepuff. And Slytherin. And Gryffindor.’

And again, shocked silence.

‘Wait, what?’ Blaise and Longbottom didn’t even seem to notice they once more spoke in sync.

‘All four of them? I didn’t even know that was possible. It’s not possible, right?’

Weasley turned to his personal encyclopaedia, but even Granger merely shook her head in bemusement. "It’s not - I didn’t think. How come, Harry?"

Harry shrugged again, dropping his gaze from Granger's abruptly hungry stare. Thirst for knowledge so clearly played across her face that it was almost nauseating. "Dumbledore wasn’t quite sure, but he seemed to think it had something to do with the age. That children are a lot more liberal in their emotional state, not as muddled as adults or older teenagers that are a lot less prone to. um… emotional allegiances. Or something like that."

‘How fascinating…’ Granger leant forwards, as though she could soak the memory from Harry’s mind. Whether unconsciously or not, Harry withdrew slightly from her. The girl didn’t notice. ‘It would be interesting to take a further look at. Imagine the barriers it could breach in the field psychology…’

‘Calm down, Granger, let’s not get into a philosophical ditch this late at night. Honestly, how you didn’t make Ravenclaw is beyond me.’ Draco sighed, dropping another smile at Harry’s slightly turned head and meeting his gaze through his fringe. ‘So all four, huh? Someone’s popular.’

Maybe it was simply driven by hope, but Draco could have sworn he saw just the faintest quiver of lips. It felt like he’d won a marathon.

"That’s pretty cool, though," Weasley said. "It’s like you basically have your choice. So which one would you choose?’ Ever stuck in the past conversation, he jutted his opinion into the mix again. The discussion began anew.

Looking back on the meal as Draco wandered back to the Slytherin dormitory, Pansy and Blaise chattering ahead of him, he was a little surprised to recall how peacefully it had passed. Everyone seemed to have tried their utmost to maintain their civility, all of them unconsciously opposing brewing attempts to disrupt the calm if any one diner appeared on the verge of breaking. It was with retrospective surprise, and even disappointment on some level, that he realised it had been so absent of hostility, of volatility in general. The conversation had drifted naturally into talk of the castle, and Draco was both surprised and pleased to find that Harry seemed mildly interested in the topic. He hadn’t spoken much, mostly listened, and his enforced watch had noted that the smaller boy had barely touched his dinner. Still, it was better than the blank faced, tucked chin and slumped silence that had settled upon the other boy on their journey from the hospital wing.

In between Pansy’s strained attempts at amicability – which was upheld admirably – and Longbottom’s and Blaise’s oddly and unexpectedly developed habit of talking in time with one another – that had initially raised scowls but eventually deteriorated into baffled amusement – the mix of Gryffindors and Slytherins had sat for well over an hour at the dining table. Granger maintained her maternal fussing, though on a muted level, and Weasley proceeded to astonish even his own friends with the amount he consumed. Draco wondered whether he was attempting to conduct some sort of aggressive display by eating as much of the ‘Slytherin’ food as he could. Dare he say Draco had found it faintly awe-inspiring.

And, most surprisingly of all, they had parted on almost friendly terms. Oh, Weasley and Longbottom had still growled when Draco had claimed he would walk with Harry back to the hospital wing, but Granger had shushed the pair with a flap of her hand, patted the quiet boy on his shoulder, and drawn her fellows back towards their dormitory with a firm hand. To add to the wonder of the situation had been the pause in her retreat and suggestion thrown back towards the waiting Slytherins and their ward along the length of the corridor.

‘Oh, Malfoy? I couldn’t help but notice you study Charms in the library on Wednesday afternoons. I hope I’m not too forward in suggesting that you may not excel quite as exceptionally in that area as you do in Potions? As I’m rather deficit in brewing, perhaps we could organise a group study session? What do you say? Then we could help Harry out if he needs to ask any questions at the same time.’

Draco had been frozen for a moment, internally flinching in horror that the girl had noticed he had less than ideal grades in Charms. After a moment, though, he recognised the suggestion for what it was.

Granger was throwing him a lifeline. Apparently, over the course of their meal, the Gryffindor girl had reached the conclusion that she would rather suffer the company of the Slytherins if they forced themselves on her when she desired to offer her services as Harry’s guide and personal tutor than to be bereft of her wayward chick when they were in his company. A study session… Yes, the girl was smart, and remarkably agreeable at that. It was surprising to realise he didn’t quite loathe her as much as he had but a day before, despite both her prominent Muggleborn and Gryffindor status. Besides, if it meant he could remain with Harry to offer his support, even with the presence of the Gryffindors… It had been difficult to agree, a blow to the pride, one might say, but he had managed. Somehow.

‘So, Draco. Potter isn’t quite what I expected.’

Raising his head, Draco met the eyes of Pansy and Blaise as they raised questioning glanced back at their friend. Pansy’s mood had brightened significantly with the progression of the evening, and she seemed positively back to normal. Definitely, if the snide remarks he had overheard jabbed into Blaise were any indication.

‘How so?’

Blaise shrugged. ‘He hangs out with Gryffindors, so I naturally assumed he was a bit of a prat. He’s not, really.’

Draco rolled his eyes. ‘How generous of you, Blaise.’

His friend only grinned in response. ‘Really, though. Quiet, true, but there’s nothing wrong with that. He’s probably still a bit out of it, no?’ Shifting his gaze to Pansy, then back to Draco as the pair nodded, he adopted a puzzled expression. ‘Did you work out what happened to him? With the curse and all?’

Pansy immediately dropped her chin, good humour fading rapidly. Draco himself crushed the rising annoyance the question sparked. No, he hadn’t worked out what happened. And it irked him furiously.

Taking a calming breath, he shook his head. ‘No, I have no idea. I didn’t think it was really appropriate to ask. He still seemed quite shell-shocked by it all. I think he’s gotten more subdued, if that’s possible.’ Sadness crept unexpectedly into his tone, and he couldn’t fathom the care to hide it.

Blaise tilted his head questioningly, no doubt sensing the underlying melancholy. Switching glances between his two deflated friends, he quirked his lips, took a deep breath and forced out a smile. ‘Well, nothing to worry about. I’m sure Pomfrey will take care of him. It’s in the past, and he doesn’t seem to hold a grudge or anything, Pans.’

Clapping a hand gently onto the Slytherin girl’s shoulder, he offered her a confident grin that she struggled to return. So deep was she in reflection that she didn’t immediately fling his consoling arm from her shoulder. ‘Yes. He didn’t even seem angry at me. Not even a little upset.’

Nodding, grin spreading, the tall Italian looping an arm around his friend’s shoulder and led them onward down the corridor. ‘Yes, definitely a Hufflepuff, that one. That’s right, you pair. You owe me ten galleons each.’

It was exactly the right thing to say. Draco remained silent, only rolling his eyes again in response as he followed his friends, yet a smile quirked the corners of his mouth. Pansy snorted and elbowed her friend in the hip, eliciting a grunt. ‘What?! Hardly, I was the one that voted for Hufflepuff.’

‘You most certainly were not! You chose Ravenclaw.’

‘No I didn’t! I distinctly remember…’

A quiet chuckle broke from Draco’s lips as he listened to his friends’ banter, mind wandering absently as they turned the final flight of staircase to the dungeon. Some things never changed, no matter how much a certain Slytherin girl fell victim to epiphanies.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I've started going a little more into the whole 'Boy Who Lived' thing with this chapter. I swear, I WILL fully explain it all in time. In, erm, quite a bit of time, but it will definitely come!
> 
> Once more, I have to thank every lovely person who has commented on my story. It's so appreciated. I know it's kind of annoying to do so - I mean, a bit of a bother and all - so really, thanks so much for reviewing. I'll always make sure I write a reply, even if it's just a thank you.  
> So again, any comments, questions and constructive criticisms (*cringe*) are welcome.


	8. What Makes a Friend

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a heads up, I'm not entirely happy with how this chapter turned out. For some reason, it just dug its heels in when I was writing it, so my apologies if it's a little stilted.  
> A little bit of angst in this chapter - though I feel it's quite warranted - but I'm making up for it with a splash of bromance and some weird and wonderful creatures.  
> Also, I've got a little bit on my interpretation of magic once again. If you don't like it, then sorry but that's just how the story goes :)  
> I hope you enjoy!

‘It’s the same basic principal as first year levitation charms. Just reassess your consideration from the subject and redirect the magic internally as opposed to externally. It’s really quite logical, Draco.’

‘Logical? I hardly see how you can claim that spontaneously lifting oneself off the ground is in any way ‘logical’ Granger. And, unlike you, Charms logic doesn’t come naturally to me.’

Harry dropped his chin further, channeling his attention onto the Transfiguration essay before him as he hid his amusement. There was something akin to friendliness beneath the exasperation and irritation that the Gryffindor and Slytherin expressed respectively. Not only that, but the very fact that Hermione was offering assistance, and even more astoundingly that Draco was comfortable enough to admit his academic struggles, spoke miles of the progression in their relationship.

The study sessions had been ongoing for weeks now. Not only had their schedule become habitual but after the very first meeting they had only grown in frequency until they met under the pretense of ‘studying’ at least once a day. Well, Hermione, Draco and Harry did. The rest of their odd little group joined them sporadically.

The initial session had been awkward. The ease of their first evening at the dining table appeared to have been eradicated with the rising sun, and the pseudo-lesson had progressed as little more than two distinct study groups of separate houses with Harry as their sole common ground. Harry couldn’t deny that it had been beneficial, however, with the assistance of both Hermione and Draco in particular. Surprisingly, despite its awkwardness, both Gryffindors and Slytherins had been rather tame. After the first argument sparked between Ron and Pansy, and Hermione determinedly dispelled it with the threat of ejecting them from their group, they were even rather cooperative. Departure saw Slytherins and Gryffindors even more firmly set upon forcing an amicable interaction.

The following meetings had developed just that. Whether it was through necessity to create a workable environment or actual affection towards one another, the awkwardness had died to wary companionability and finally easy camaraderie. By the second week, schedules for an increase in sessions had already been proposed by the eternally-organised Hermione, and by the fourth week of every day catch-ups, their familiarity had evolved into easy conversation and a surprising drop of surnames in place of informal addresses. Well, mostly. Frequent bouts of irritation still dredged up the scathing remarks and drawling formal referencing.

Despite the unavoidable upheavals, Harry found himself surprised by how easily he was fitting into the enforced meetings. It seemed to have slipped everyone’s minds to actually ask him whether he wanted them to go the ‘extra mile’ and attempt civility for the benefit of their study group, but he found that it didn’t really worry him. If anything, he noticed that their presence begun to elicit a steadily growing warmth throughout him, an odd affection and gratitude. That in itself was startling. Harry had never been one to interact with others, often finding close working environments at school to be exhausting and more than a little unnerving. 

The Hogwarts students seemed to force such discomfort from him somehow. Perhaps it was their overprotective approach that, no matter how they each attempted to hide it, still managed to make itself blatantly obvious. Each expressed it in their own way; Draco with his ever present companionship and startling coldness towards advances upon Harry’s privacy, Pansy and her oh-so-uncharacteristic and at times sickly sweet compassion, and Blaise’s ever-present humour to lighten the often oppressive mood. Hermione did not even attempt to conceal her motherly affection, while Neville seemed to be barely restraining a proactive defensiveness of all that appeared threatening. Only Ron failed to display an overt concern, but even so still managed to assist in creating a comfortable environment for their steadily growing friendship, his constant joviality and sarcastic input oddly calming.

If he didn’t feel quite so comfortable with it, Harry would have been astounded, unnerved and perhaps even a little deterred with their attention. He still could not fathom their interest in him – there was simply nothing about his character that could possibly induce the welcoming attitude of his fellows – but with their continued attention he found that he came to enjoy it more and more. Perhaps, on a subconscious level, he had desired as much from the moment he begun at the school. Maybe even beforehand.

The initially uncomfortable atmosphere of their study sessions soon slipped into comforting ease. The speed of such a progression was nothing if not relieving. Honestly, any further strain and awkwardness would have been a little too much for Harry at this point. No matter how much he attempted to move past the incident in the Defence Against the Dark Arts lesson, the darkness of the assault of memories, so strong and so overpowering, had left him a little shattered. Only years of experience in maintaining his expressionless façade had enabled him to face his small entourage of protectors without breaking down at every whisper of words, every unnecessary touch and questioning gaze. 

A thick mass had settled in his chest that no amount of compulsive picking of his collarbones could alleviate. Always before the nervous raking of fingernails had served to temporarily relieve some of the stress and thrust the foreboding more deeply under a pillow of repression. Such relief lasted briefly, however, and the darkness always seemed to rear back up in no time. It was almost enough to drag him into a despairing depression, back into a catatonic state, the memories of the past threatening to overwhelm him. The onslaught, the reawakening of memories, was too raw.

More than that, Harry found that the idea of magic was, at times, horrifyingly repelling. Each instance a wand rose and flickered with the spark of magic he would struggle not to flinch at the memory of the assault such magic had inflicted. Seeing his peers using wands left him with a queasy feeling in his gut, and he could hardly even contemplate using one now. Though he knew it was irrational, that it was the magic, not the wand, that produced the desired outcomes, he couldn’t seem to see that slim rod of enchanted wood as anything but a weapon. His own wand now lay wrapped in layers of t-shirts at the bottom of his school trunk, not even accompanying him to classes anymore.

Harry knew that those around him weren’t oblivious to his dilemma, though his classmates at least appeared content to overlook the oddity. McGonagall, on the other hand, was not so accommodating. Harry knew what she was doing; it was painfully obvious that the nightly requests to see her to ‘discuss anything, anything at all’ were an attempt to gauge his mental stability. He’d had something of a similar experience before, with a counsellor in middle school, but that had fizzled out with his own lack of participation. And despite her persistence, McGonagall’s attempts similarly died, though she still looked at him worriedly from time to time when she thought he didn’t notice. Of course he did. Years of ‘subtle’ teachers glancing at him sideways forced him to develop something of a sixth sense for that sort of thing.

He didn’t speak to McGonagall – or anyone for that matter – about his thoughts, about what had happened, though he knew curiosity plagued them from their glances. Nor did he discuss his worries that his latest block with magic would compromise his studies. And they likely would have, if not for his newfound friends.

The block, as it turned, out was so temporary as to be fleeting. Though he still could not quite bring himself to use a wand, it had taken remarkably little time for his capability to conduct magic to arise once more. Harry attributed the fact to Hermione’s enthusiasm with teaching; she really was quite good, if only for her persistence. The additional assistance of the other Gryffindors and Slytherins patched up any potential holes that spouted in her otherwise immaculate methods. 

Yet even had they not assisted in his magical studies, the mere presence of his new friends would have been priceless. Their enforced companionship, the threat that they would very likely seek him out if he remained staring listlessly at the ceiling in Featherwood’s rooms was a big part of what urged him from his lethargic melancholy in the mornings, was the only thing that kept him from fixating in his seclusion at night. Still, he hardly slept; something about the experience of being the tail end of a curse, of what it provoked, made living in the aftermath of it rather…difficult.

As it was, initially he had struggled to maintain the carefree mask. He knew he hadn’t quite succeeded in concealing how shaken he was from his peers all the time. Yet though they had all abruptly intensified their protectiveness, he didn’t think that most of his surrounding group of classmates fully realised how much he had been unhinged. Except for maybe Draco; he seemed to look at him slightly differently. Not only that, but his hardness, the impression of distance and coldness that he had previously maintained even when it became evident he was aware of its redundancy, had been suddenly dropped. The young Slytherin was even…kind.

‘…anything like your attempts at a Withdrawal Potion recitation, Granger, I can assure you that your simplifications are anything but succinct.’  
Well, Draco was kind to Harry, at least.

Hermione sighed in exasperation, overlooking the dig even though Ron mumbled a half-hearted objection from her right. ‘Fine, Draco, if you don’t think my methods of explaining are up to scratch, ask Harry. He was able to get it in our first lesson, too, and he understands it very differently to me.’

As one, Hermione, Draco, Pansy, Ron and Neville all turned towards Harry expectantly. Blaise, head bowed over his own half-finished Transfiguration essay, failed to join them but Harry suspected it was only because he was half asleep.

Harry didn’t quite flinch under the full-blown focus; he had gotten over the overwhelming unease that had resurfaced with a vengeance whenever he became the centre of attention. Another by-product of the memory-inducing spell that he was overcoming. Still, it was nonetheless uncomfortable.

Placing down his pen – he still could not fathom, nor take to, the use of a quill – Harry cocked his head in consideration. ‘Well, I guess I don’t really think of it as a levitation charm. That’s how I-’

‘How is it anything but a levitation charm? Raising yourself a couple of feet off the ground doesn’t seem like the next best thing to flying to you?’  
Hermione swatted Ron on the shoulder with a scowl, though Ron’s clearly innocent expression showed that the statement had not been made with condescending intent.

Harry shrugged, taking up his pen once more and idly dotting a period more firmly. ‘Yeah, I suppose, but…well, the first time I did it, it was almost like my magic was taking on the propulsion that I was unconsciously building up to help me to levitate.’ He silenced, cocking his head as he struggled to put his own comprehension into words. ‘It’s like I took the idea that I could…push myself upwards, and used that to initiate the spell.’

‘Like propulsion… and suspension?’ Draco narrowed his eyes thoughtfully, tapping his chin with a long finger. Harry wasn’t particularly surprised that the Slytherin seemed to be grasping the concept in a similar way to how he saw it. Initially, he had been startled with the knowledge that Draco often perceived things as he did, especially given their differing backgrounds that would in all likelihood have suggested very different approaches.

‘I don’t get it.’ Ron shook his head, a bewildered Neville nodding in agreement.

‘Well, I guess the first time it felt like the easiest approach to boost yourself into the air would be a jump, and then to simply suspend when actually there. Freezing things in place isn’t particularly difficult for me to wrap my head around, even if they are hanging in mid-air, so that was about how I did it.’

‘What, you jumped? I didn’t see you jump.’ Even Pansy seemed intrigued now. It hadn’t escaped Harry’s notice that the girl had also struggled with the charm.

‘No, I didn’t jump, I just… I think it was more the mindset. I can’t really conceive that an inanimate object would move entirely of its own accord so, um… Sorry, I don’t think it really makes sense…’

‘No, I think I understand.’ Draco nodded, a satisfied smile spreading across his chin. ‘Thanks, Harry.’

Another point – Draco never failed to express his appreciation for assistance from Harry. He made up for it, though, by overlooking the aid of the Gryffindors at almost every opportunity.

Ron flickered his gaze between Draco and Harry, confusion written across his face. ‘I have no idea what you’re talking about.’

‘Well, it’s a good thing that you can already float yourself, then, isn’t it Ron?’ The exasperation was definitely firmly back in place in Hermione’s voice. She barely spared him a moment before turning her attention towards Harry. ‘See? I told you you’d help. You are good at spells, you just don’t realise it and lack the confidence.’

Harry shook his head, not even bothering to reinitiate the conversation they had broached more times than he could count. Hermione maintained he was something of a magical prodigy, but conveniently overlooked the fact that his success was riddled with more holes than a sponge. 

Much like his struggles with casting offensive spells, Harry had come to the realisation that perhaps his more extensive Muggle education had a more significant influence upon his abilities as a wizard than anticipated. Aside from his apparent inability to cast when he couldn’t perceive the possibility of ever using the spell, it appeared that, if he could not scientifically ground the phenomenon, even when forcing himself to believe the improbable, omniscient qualities of magic, he ultimately failed.

So, as a result, levitation was possible. Assisting himself to ‘levitate’ a half-dozen feet off the ground was possible. Even shifting a solid object into aqueous form was possible, for, realistically, it truly was possible. Changing a mouse into a matchbox? It bordered on the improbable, but even so he had managed to eventually grasp how the conversion could be made. But transferring it back? Entirely impossible. Non-living material could not once again become living. It was simply entirely inconceivable. 

He had encountered similar hurdles with conjuring. How could one make something from nothing? Summoning, that was possible, but apparent conjugation? Even thinking about it baffled him and caused his head to ache slightly. And that was to say nothing of his difficulties surrounding the conversion of mass; more often than not his transfigured objects were unnecessarily heavy or comically light for their size. It would have been frustrating if Harry hadn’t found it so logical.

When attempting to explain as much to his ring of protectors, to ask exactly how such magical feats he deemed unfathomable were in fact possible, even the ever-rational Hermione had simply replied ‘well, because it’s magic’. How such a response seemed justifiable was beyond him, yet even Hermione, Muggleborn and as such relatively new to magic, appeared able to overcome the barrier he faced. Harry suspected it had more to do with the majority of her teenage years being influenced by said impossibilities than any deficiencies on her part. She didn’t seem at all worried by the lack of justification in her claim, though Harry had seen her blushing her embarrassment at an inability to validate far less. That very phrase, the absolute faith in this thing called ‘magic’, had been repeated already, barely an hour before, and had contributed to Harry’s sigh and slip into silence, remaining determinedly neutral in the face of the Gryffindor girl’s attempts at explaining a concept which in no way made sense. 

Catching a glimpse of the fading light outside the window, Harry wiped his finger across the table and cast a Tempus Charm that briefly embedded its figures into the table-top. A time charm, now that was handy. And surprisingly paradoxical, given that he supposed it was a little like conjuring, but resolutely ignored the fact. Sometimes his subconsciousness allowed for the fact and he wasn’t going to dispute it. That he was only able to produce the charm when it was impressed into a solid object probably had something to do with it.

Rolling up his parchment into a scroll – really, it was so much more practical using a pen than quill and ink, given that Hermione was still blowing on the finishing lines of her own paper – Harry set about packing away for the next class. The break they all shared on Friday after lunch had been a pleasantly surprising discovery, and though Ron complained of them spending all of their free time studying, he still joined them for their group time. He rarely studied, however, and Neville frequently joined him in his study-less state. 

Catching a glimpse of Harry’s motion, Draco set down his own quill. ‘Is it that time already?’ He cast his own Tempus Charm, airborne in glowing digits, before proceeding to pack his bag, nudging Blaise awake at his side. The Italian youth snorted rather loudly, eliciting a snicker from Pansy, before rubbing his eyes and lazily sliding his own books into his bag.

‘You’ve got Magical Creatures now, haven’t you, Harry?’

Harry turned to the blonde, who spoke seemingly offhandedly in a question of curiosity, but Harry knew for a fact that the taller boy had his timetable memorised. A fact that would have left Draco mortified if he knew that Harry, or anyone else for that matter, was aware of it.

Harry simply nodded. ‘Ancient Runes?’

‘Yeah, and we’re finally starting on independent construction today. It’s so exciting!’ Hermione’s enthusiasm brought smiles to all of their faces – well, the Slytherin’s didn’t exactly smile, but their faces notably softened. It was a significant step from the sneers they would have offered barely a month beforehand.

‘Calm down, Hermione, it’s a theoretical lecture today. We won’t even touch on practical application for weeks.’ Draco spoke with deliberate slowness, as though to a child, but the widening of Hermione’s grin bespoke the recognition of the use of her first name. Even after frequent usage of informal address, Hermione seemed to view it as a personal triumph every time one of the Slytherins addressed her with such familiarity.

‘Still, I’m excited! And don’t tell me you aren’t, Draco, or I’ll call you out for a liar.’

Draco smirked once more towards Harry, who managed a small smile in return. Sadly, he noticed that it slipped almost immediately off his own face when Neville sidled up to him. It wasn’t voluntary; for some reason, Harry could only really bring an intentional smile to his face for Draco. Maybe he let him see under his mask because Draco afforded him the same leniency?

‘You ready to go, Harry?’ Neville offered his own grin, hitching his satchel further up his shoulder. Harry nodded, following Draco’s already retreating back towards the exit. Alongside Pansy, the blonde led the way from the library.

Blaise loosed a yawn as he wandered alongside Ron, Neville and Harry. ‘I am so glad that I have a free on Friday afternoon. I pity you poor souls who have to finish your week working.’

‘Here, here.’ Ron agreed with his own contagious yawn, face relaxed in the knowledge of his liberty. ‘I’m dedicating this afternoon to ‘study free time’. Sixth year workload is something else, I tell you.’

Blaise quirked a smile at the red-head before shaking his head. For all his apparent laziness, the Italian boy proved himself to be rather studious. Something Ron, for all that he managed fairly well in his classes, evidently lacked. ‘Well then, if you have nothing planned, Ron, I believe a rematch is in order.’

Ron flashed a wicked grin. ‘Are you sure you’re prepared for that?’

‘Are you sure you are prepared?’

As though racing one another, the two abruptly departed the small party, turning back towards to marble chessboards at the back of the library. Their eagerness left them barely offering a farewell to their friends, or ‘acquaintances’ as the Slytherin’s still maintained, before disappearing.

‘Where are they going?’ Hermione asked, turning from where she had stopped at the library doors. She adopted a frown of exasperation as comprehension dawned. ‘Again?’

Neville shrugged. ‘They’re pretty evenly matched, actually. And they’re both ridiculously competitive so…’

Draco sighed. ‘I can’t really complain; it distracts Blaise from pestering me for a match that he knows he’ll win. I refuse to offer him any more leprechaun gold to bet with, however.’

‘Ron’s been winning leprechaun gold?’

‘Hermione, think for a moment about who you are speaking of.’ The statement effectively ended that train of thought. ‘Anyway, we have to go or we’ll be late. See you at dinner, Harry.’

Harry nodded obediently under Draco’s pointed stare, feeling remarkably like a child abiding their parent. It was enough to receive his own nod of satisfaction, before the blonde turned and led Pansy and Hermione further into the castle. Hermione had grown surprisingly comfortable with the two Slytherins, and immediately begun her excited spiel once more, to which Draco ignored and Pansy faced with a mixture of amusement and something like fear. It gave him a warm feeling, to so behold his new friends in such an amicable light. Especially, for some reason, Pansy; despite their rocky start, she had been one of the most determined to assist Harry in his studies. Or, well, not assist in studying so much as ensure that he was about as comfortable as humanly possible in the process. 

It was strange, how different the girl had become after the incident. For whatever reason – though Draco had, at one point, seriously discussed with him that he had every right to be angry, even to hate her – he couldn’t seem to dredge up anything but surprise when confronted with Pansy’s change of heart. Logically, he knew he should be upset with her, even scared of her, but it just seemed unfathomable to see the girl in a negative light with her abrupt turnabout. Far from the confident, blasé character he had been previously wary of, Pansy had trouble addressing him at first. She looked on the verge of crying each time he spoke back to her, an unexpected development to say the least. After a time, however, she had grown more confident in their interactions and appeared to have assumed to take on a maternal role similar to that of Hermione, though with markedly less studiousness. 

Watching as the unlikely trio disappeared into the depths of the castle, Harry pondered that he had come to maybe even like Pansy a little before a word from Neville had them heading towards the entrance hall. They walked in comfortable silence; it was one thing that Harry enjoyed about Neville’s company. Despite his seeming need to talk when around Ron, Neville was surprisingly quiet when out of the red-head’s company. Well, at times anyway. Sometimes he seemed to feel the need to converse, a chain of communication that largely consisted of Harry listening to his chatter, but even that was oddly calming.

The sun was sprawled lazily in mid-descent, barely sitting above the bristled leaves of the taller trees of the Forbidden Forest. It was remarkable how quickly the days shortened as winter proceeded to heave its chilly breath across the school. It wasn’t snowing yet, thankfully, but it couldn’t be far off. Frost coated the windows every morning. Harry personally held hopes for a late winter; he wasn’t partial to the cold.

Their silent march down towards Hagrid’s hut, the universal meeting point of Magical Creatures students, was abruptly broken with the presence of the returning fifth year students. Nods of acknowledgement greeted the pair, but it was two figures in particular that actually broke from the throng, conducting an about turn to walk with them back in the direction they had come.

Neville smiled at his two friends. ‘Ginny, Luna. How are you?’

Both girls smiled with varying degrees of enthusiasm, the former distinctly wider. ‘Pretty grand, actually. We’ve finally finished our last lesson on thestrals today.’

‘Oh, don’t say it like that, Ginny. Thestral’s are fascinating creatures. I think it was one of my favourite creatures we’ve studied, actually.’

Ginny rolled her eyes at her friend’s words. ‘Yeah, you would. It probably helps if you can actually see what it is you are supposed to be observing, though.’

Luna merely smiled.

Harry and Neville were silent as they continued towards their lesson, content to listen to the girls chatter. Harry had not had much to do with Ginny – the extent included several study sessions that the girl had been curious enough to take a peek at before quickly retreating – but somehow he found himself in Luna’s company more often than he thought purely coincidental. 

The blonde girl was a curiosity. Oddly perceptive, she was also at times remarkably blunt. It didn’t make a particularly favourable initial impression. However, though Harry at times still felt wary around the younger girl, her eyes at times too knowing for his general comfort, he found her both intriguing and somehow easy to get along with. She held absolutely no judgement towards her fellow students, and though her attitude towards life did seem to run along a decidedly different pair of train tracks to those around her, it by no means meant she wasn’t heading in the same direction. She just seemed to take the scenic route while everyone else cut directly to their destinations.

As it were, Harry saw Luna as being somewhat distinctly different to the other young witches and wizards at the school. Luna felt the same way about him – she had told him so, in fact, in very definite terms – and as a result the two had developed a strange sort of friendship. The camaraderie of outsiders, as it were.

‘…feeling of something that you can’t see licking your fingers is just…urgh!’ Ginny shuddered, shaking her hands as though to rid herself of the feeling. ‘Harry, you are so lucky that you never had to take those lessons.’

Harry turned towards the youngest Weasley, quirking an eyebrow. ‘You can’t see them?’

Ginny shook her head. ‘No. Not that I’m complaining, given what that means, you know…’ The girl dropped her head in a respectful sadness, though it quickly morphed into a frown as she shifted her gaze back towards Harry. ‘You can?’

Neville and Luna similarly turned towards Harry in curiosity; Luna knowingly and Neville…not knowing. Harry inclined his head. ‘I spent about a week at school before term started. Professor McGonagall thought it would help with transitioning. I spent some time with Hagrid.’

The question was evidently begging to be asked by all three, but only Luna showed the confidence, or perhaps the lack of inhibitions, to prompt him. ‘Who did you see die?’

‘Luna!’ Both Ginny and Neville appeared guiltily mortified at her question. Harry couldn’t really see why. He supposed that most people would see it as intrusive and tactless, but it didn’t really offend him.

‘Just before I was eleven, one of my neighbours who used to take care of me sometimes, Mrs. Figg. She had a heart attack.’ A twinge of sadness settled in the back of Harry’s throat. He had not particularly liked the woman; she was far too eccentric for that, with her overall twitchiness, her strange obsessions and the permanent odour of cat urine that clung to her like a pungent perfume. But she had been kind. In hindsight, his fondness for the woman was likely simply hidden by his unfamiliarity with the feeling. No one had ever really been close enough to show him kindness on such an intimate level, none save the Dursleys and they adamantly refused to even attempt to afford him as much. 

Ginny and Neville adopted mirroring expressions of awkwardness, Ginny chewing her bottom lips as though searching for words while Neville tugged at his fringe. The other boy did that sometimes, seemingly unconsciously, but Harry noticed such ministrations always seemed to be when he experienced unease and never failed to cover up the oddly shaped scar adorning his forehead. Luna seemed perfectly comfortable with the explanation. She offered a smile of sympathy, nodding her commiserations, before stepping from Ginny’s side to walk alongside Harry’s instead. It was hardly an overt display of compassion, but it was certainly adequate for Harry. It surprised him when he felt a small smile settle on his lips that Luna returned just as mutely. 

‘Um… I’m really sorry for asking that, Harry.’ From her tone, it was apparent that Ginny felt she was apologising on Luna’s behalf as well as her own. She kept her eyes resolutely on the path as they made their way down the hill towards Hagrid’s hut. ‘That must have been horrible.’

Harry shrugged in reply, accepting the apology. ‘It’s fine. It was a long time ago. There was nothing anyone could have done for her anyway.’

Neville’s and Ginny’s awkwardness threatened to turn the atmosphere positively uncomfortable, but Luna, in her breezy way, broke the ice. ‘Harry, that’s your cat, isn’t it?’

Harry didn’t need to look behind him to know Luna’s assumption was correct. Lyssy was never far behind, and he would have suspected it was her even had he not noticed her slipping from the castle behind him. ‘Yeah, she follows me just about everywhere.’

Luna stopped momentarily, taking a few steps backward and scooping the near-invisible shadow of black fur off the ground. ‘Hello, Lyssy. It’s a pleasure to see you again.’ Harry smiled, at the pair, indulging Lyssy’s contented purr. He always found it a little amusing that the girl spoke to the little cat as though she could reply. Amusing, yet warming, as he often found himself doing the same. 

‘I can’t believe you have a familiar before you’re seventeen. I’m a little jealous, I have to admit.’ Ginny sighed longingly, but flashed a smile to remove any sting from her words. ‘And such a cute one at that.’ And as though magnetised, the redhead gravitated towards the cat lounging in Luna’s arms, stroking fondly across her ears. Lyssy positively thrummed with bliss. 

Neville watched the girls cooing over the little creature with fond amusement. ‘I always wanted a familiar too. Don’t know why, it just appeals to me for some reason. That subconscious link and all, with someone that trusts you entirely…’ He trailed off, eyes turning to Harry and flushing slightly in embarrassment. As such, he missed the intense glance Ginny sent his way. Harry didn’t have to think hard to discern the meaning behind her glance. He barely knew the girl and her crush was blatantly apparent. Poor Neville, lost in his blissful ignorance.

Harry shrugged. ‘It’s not like I feel any sort of physical connection, exactly. Just… I don’t know, I’m calmer when she’s around.’ In response to his words, the little cat stretched herself, kneading briefly at Luna’s arms before dexterously leaping the impressive distance towards Harry and nimbly landed on his shoulder. The three onlookers smiled with a mixture of amusement, envy and adoration. Lyssy often induced such responses; people just seemed drawn to her for some reason.

Neville took his own turn at petting the cat’s head. ‘Still, I didn’t know familiars were quite so…clingy. I swear, she’s around you nearly every second of the day. She’s like a shadow.’

‘No, she is with me every second of the day. When it seems she isn’t she’s usually just hiding.’ Neville stared blankly at Harry for a moment, confused, before smiling as he realised the joke for what it was. ‘Actually, that’s what made Draco think she was my familiar. That, and apparently she sort of looks like me.’

Loosing a burst of laughter, Neville grinned broadly. ‘That’s what I said! She really does! You know what they say about owners looking like their pets?’ The laughter continued, Luna twittering with a dreamy smile and Ginny chortling. Harry felt his face soften at their amusement.

By the time they reached Hagrid’s hut, nearly the entire class had assembled, the final student arriving merely moments after Harry and Neville. Lyssy dropped to the ground upon arrival, disappearing before anyone could notice. Not that it would have mattered, really; she was a commonly seen appendage of Harry’s. 

It was a remarkably small class, only five in total, making the presence of the two fifth year girls more noticeable. Neville’s quick query of said girls determined that, yes, they had decided to skive off their History of Magic class in favour of ‘seeing a hippocampus for the first time!’ as Luna exclaimed with a clap of her hands. Professor Binns rarely took attendance, and so they had little fear of being routed out. Well, except by Hagrid, but upon the half-giant’s appearance, the fond smile upon the two quickly allayed any doubts that may have surfaced as to their inclusion.

‘Ginny, Luna. Doin’ alrigh’?. Come to see the hippocampus, have yeh?’

The girls nodding in unison. ‘Luna said she asked you if it was okay.’

‘O’ course. So long as yeh have permission from whichever teacher is takin’ the class yeh’ll be missin’.’

With fool-proof confidence, both girls nodded their assent. Harry had to admire the infallibility of their composure, even if the thought of missing a single class made him feel a little ill. His own magical education was so patchy that every second counted; he couldn’t imagine skipping a lesson, even one as dry as Professor Binns’. The ghost was old and spoke in a lulling, monotonous tone, but some of what he said was actually quite interesting. Some. 

‘Righ’, well that’s settled. Now, today we’re goin’ to be headin’ down to the lake, take a look at the colony we’ve got down there. I’ve spoken to the mermaid chef – well, the Headmaster spoke to him – so they should be not too far from the shores. We’ve got some squid here, deep fried as that’s how they like ‘em best, so should be able to have a good, close look at ‘em.’ With a nudge of his booted feet, Hagrid pushed a lidless bucket forward and wafted the aroma of calamari towards the students. 

‘Now, hippocampus are very nervy creatures, flighty but not dangerous at all. Can’t be makin’ any sudden movement else they’ll scare off in a heartbeat. Yeh make the first move, then let ‘em come to yeh, just like most every magical creature. Give ‘em a treat, and they’ll like as not let yeh pet ‘em, if yer close enough.’

Clapping his enormous hands in booming satisfaction, Hagrid beamed at his sixth years. The class nodded their understanding and everyone stepped forwards to each scoop up an admittedly heavy bucket of deep fried squid. The smell was a little sickening to Harry, but elicited a growl from Neville’s belly that had the rest of the class laughing.

‘I can’t believe we actually get to see real, live hippocampus! No one ever sees them, even though they’re in our lake. Hagrid’s the best for agreeing to let us come along; I can’t imagine any other teacher letting fifth years join a sixth year lesson.’ Ginny babbled excitedly as she scooped up a bucket of her own. ‘We’re so lucky, though. Do you know how rare it is to find even a small pod, let alone a whole colony?’ Now more settled with the knowledge that Hagrid accepted their participation, the fifth year girl seemed nearly fit to bursting with enthusiasm as they made their way towards the lake.

‘That’s because they rarely live around British waters. They’re traditionally tropical mammals, you know. These ones are specially bred over generations before they could be introduced into the lake.’

Ginny turned towards Luna, who peered with a strange mixture of carelessness and eagerness towards the lake, as though she could spot the magical creatures even at such a distance. ‘How do you know that?’

‘Luna came and sat in our class on Wednesday.’ Neville shifted his bucket awkwardly in his arms. ‘That’s how she knew we were going to see them today. She got curious when we said we’d just finished with Capricorns. Hippocampus are the natural segue, right?’ 

‘You came to their class on Wednesday too? Why didn’t you invite me? Actually, why didn’t I even notice?’

‘Michaela said you fell asleep nearly as soon as class started. Tuesday night you pulled the all-nighter, didn’t you? You were tired all day.’

Ginny pursed her lips at Luna’s words, but failed to respond as they rapidly approached the edge of the lake.

It was remarkably cold so close to the water. Harry felt himself begin the frustratingly persistent shivers that he was all-too familiar with. Hunching his shoulders, he turned a glance towards the sky. Did that look like snow clouds?

Moments later a sudden warmth spread through his body. Glancing beside him, he noticed Neville had deposited his squid-bucket and pointed his wand at him. ‘Better?’

Struggling with a smile, Harry nodded. ‘Thank you.’

‘No problem.’

‘All righ’! Putting your buckets down on the ground so’s you don’t spill ‘em – we’re not gonna be holdin’ ‘em all lesson.’ Following his own directions, Hagrid dropped his barrel-like tub of treats before raising two fingers to his lips. A sharp whistle split the air moments later, and was answered by a similarly pitched shriek from an unseeable source. 

‘Righ’. Now, if yeh all’ll be watchin’…’ Scooping up a handful of the calamari, with a demonstration of incredible throwing abilities, the half-giant launched the treats over a hundred feet into the lake. Every eye in the class fastened on the faint splash in the distance. 

‘Watchin’…just watchin’…’

Stillness spread across the surface of the lake, pristine flatness appearing deceptively solid. That is, until a burst of foaming spray launched a half-dozen feet into the air and revealed a long, sinuous form of greenish blue, striped in darker greys like a tiger shark and just as long. The beating fins fanned for a few moments, as though flapping to keep the creature suspended in mid-air, and a delighted whinny echoed across the lake from the pointed snout before the creature twisted and crashed back into the darkness of the lake.

Gasps and whispers of wonder flitted through the watching class. Harry himself was rendered speechless, though that wasn’t particularly unusual itself. Magical creatures, whether dangerous or harmless, tended to have such an impact on him. For the life of him, he couldn’t understand why more sixth years hadn’t continued the course, regardless of what Neville had guiltily admitted was Hagrid’s previously questionable teaching methods. He’d apparently improved substantially in the last year or so.

‘It’s just as beautiful as a thestral… I heard that their manes were purple because of the whirglispurts that live only in hippocampus hair, so that explains the colour… I wonder if I asked nicely enough they would let me take a sample of the mucus from their skin? It’s supposed to have remarkable antiobiotic properties. It would be fascinating…’

Harry nearly smiled at the soft narration Luna kept up at his side. For her sake, he was glad that it was quiet enough for no one else to hear. He didn’t particularly mind, but previous experience had taught him that most were more put off than amused by the oddness of her monologues.

He could hardly blame her, though. Luna was one of the few people that seemed to share his fascination for magical creatures. Neville and Ginny both seemed more partial to continuing their education in that area due to their loyalty to Hagrid, and the three other girls in the class demonstrated a mixture of wariness and academic curiosity, of the two Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaw respectively. For Harry, something about the solidity of the creatures, something that was deemed so mystical yet he could see before his very eyes, could even feel, was one of the most wondrous things he had encountered since he had begun his tutelage at Hogwarts. They were visible, real and solid, and, more importantly, believable. No grasping at theoretical possibilities. Almost against his will, he felt himself driven with the urge to get closer.

‘Do you think we could get closer?’ The whisper from Luna, nearly identical to his own thoughts, sparked a flinch driven not only from the sudden proximity of the Ravenclaw girl. She had nearly pressed herself to his side in an effort to remain covert.

Harry paused for a moment to recompose himself. ‘I…I don’t know. Hagrid’s saying something about feeding them…’ Glancing over towards his teacher, he could just make out the relaying of directions the half-giant boomed at the two Hufflepuff girls. They seemed eager enough to participate further, even with the evident distaste at thickly lathering their fingers with greasy calamari.

‘Come on, let’s go in the water.’

Harry had to bite back an exclamation of horror at the suggestion. ‘Luna, it’s nearly winter. You’d freeze to death.’

‘Don’t worry, don’t worry.’ Luna flapped a hand loosely in his direction, as though dissipating the arguments. ‘You’ve got a Warming Charm on you already, and we’ll just dry ourselves off when we come out.’

Firm in her resolution, the girl squatted down beside the bucket of squid, conjured a basket and proceeded to grab handfuls of the deep fried substance from the greater depths. When Harry admitted defeat, or accepted as may be more appropriate, she conjured a similar basket for him and passed it over wordlessly. Harry nodded his head in thanks; Luna was like that. She didn’t need someone to ask for help, but acknowledged their difficulties and assisted in the most direct way possible.

Moments later, the both had shed their robes, rolled their trousers up to their knees, removed shoes and socks and headed towards the lake-side. Lyssy, never one to be left behind even with the looming threat of water, darted from her spectator’s position on the tree-line and clawed her way onto Harry’s shoulder, peering towards the darkness of the lake with a twitching tail. Only when the water – thankfully free of iciness due to the presence of their Warming Charms – lapped at their toes did a call pause them in place. 

‘Luna, Harry, what are you doing?’

Neville’s voice was thick with incredulity and concern. Initially distracted by Ginny in their mutual admiration, he evidently hadn’t noticed their motions until that moment. Now, he hastened to their side, frowning at Luna as though blaming her and conveniently overlooking Harry’s role as a primary participant.

‘We wanted to get a little bit closer. Did you want to come too, Neville?’ Blissfully unaware, or perhaps deliberately ignoring, Neville’s concern, Luna cast his a dreamy smile towards him before turning without waiting for an answer and wading into the water. Harry offered a shrug to Neville before following her, basket crooked in his elbow and Lyssy pressed firmly against his ear. Neville’s mumbling behind him alerted him to his agreement and he was unsurprised when moments later a light splashing could be heard behind him.

‘Not too far, you lot! I don’t wanna be fishin’ anybody outta the lake. An’ Warming Charms if yeh please.’ 

Harry shook his head. Only at Hogwarts would a teacher fail to drag their wayward pupils from a freezing lake full of potentially dangerous creatures.

Well past his knees and the crinkle of where his trousers were folded to, Harry finally stopped beside Luna when the cold waters lapped at the base of his ribcage. The heavy weight of his clothes dragged him to a halt more than anything else. Luna was already scooping calamari from her basket, which now drifted idly on the water beside her, and shaking the squid in the water to waft the scent towards their targets. Hippocampus have an incredible sense of smell. Hagrid had assured them it was their primary sense by far.

Pausing in wait, choosing to watch first, Harry was pleasantly surprised yet notably unintimidated when a roiling of the waters around himself and Luna alerted them to the presence of a visitor. The blackness of the lake seemed to cloak anything even just beneath the surface in dark invisibility, so it was only when the creature broke the gently waving surface that it became visible.

It was an enormous creature, easily the size of an orca. Some might have thought the slimy greenish blue scales were ugly, the mane-like tendrils spouting from the back of its neck distastefully similar to seaweed and the flat black eyes disconcerting. Harry didn’t feel so, and evidently neither did Luna as she reached out fearlessly and offered the morsels in a flat palm. 

With delicacy bellying its size, the hippocampus prodded Luna’s palm with its pointed snout, nuzzling her pale fingers before vacuuming the squid into its mouth. A long purple tongue lapped across the greasy surface of her hand before comically licking its lips and drawing back slightly. Luna breathed a giggle of delight, turning her palm over and reaching towards the head with forced slowness. The treats had evidently bought her loyalty, as the hippocampus barely withdrew when she placed a finger on her head.

Harry was somewhat captivated by the display. Luna’s ease, her complete lack of cow, left a warm buzz in his chest. Yes, he decided, he quite liked the girl’s company. Following her example, he scooped a handful of squid from his own basket and wafted it in the water. Barely moments later, a slightly smaller head presented itself. A mare, if the absence of stripes on the snout was anything to go by, and a faintly paler green than the buck at her side. With blind probing, the horse-like snout brushed across his fingers in search of the treats before gobbling them up with such an expression of satisfaction that Harry nearly laughed. Nearly, though not quite.

Neville soon joined his side, followed by Ginny after some time. Eventually, even Hagrid, accompanied by the three other sixth year girls, joined their wading and each gaining remarkable confidence after the first confrontation with the impressive beasts. Hannah and Susan had even begun to label them with rather colourful names, while Mandy contented herself with slowly and deliberately feeding each hippocampus that approached her, but never more than one treat each. 

The little mare stuck with Harry for the entire lesson. Even when the treats had been exhausted, and more than half of their attendees sunken beneath the surface, the pale green creature continued to nudge insistently at his hand. An odd sliminess coated his hands, not exactly unpleasant but certainly unfamiliar. Harry found himself rather amused to realise that the slimness was beginning to tinge his palms green. He continued to stroke the knobbly head of the mare as Hagrid proceeded with the theoretical component of their lesson, giving a rather obtuse description of the history of this Black Lake’s particular colony before proceeding to give a far more in-depth analysis of their anatomy. The real-life examples beside him were an added bonus.

It was a companionable lesson, and Harry wasn’t the only one who was startled when Hagrid exclaimed that they had run nearly an hour over time. Indeed, the sun had nearly disappeared behind the darkness of the forest behind them, only a faint glow remaining of it vibrancy.

‘All righ’, yeh lot, quickly out of the lake. I’m no’ sayin’ it’s gonna happen, but the giant squid seems to have switched to a nocturnal cycle, so yeh may want the be getting yerselves outta the water before then.’

As one, every student exchanged glances before powering out of the water. The hippocampus, startled by their sudden movement, disappeared beneath the surface before they had even reached the shore.

‘Here, Harry, I’ll dry you off.’ Luna, turning towards Harry as her trembled even in his warming charm, pointed her wand towards him even while she dripped puddles onto the pebbles under her feet.

‘I’m okay, I can manage. You dry yourself -’

‘Sicumo.’ 

In a split second, Harry’s trousers and the bottom half of his shirt billowed with crisp warmth and marked dryness. Sighing, he dipped his head in appreciation. ‘Thanks.’

‘No problem.’ The blonde girl smiled easily before quickly drying herself.

Ginny, similarly in a renewed state of dryness, hastened to her side. ‘Luna, I completely forgot. We have that assignment on Baba Yaga to hand in today. Today!’

The Ravenclaw nodded her head. ‘I know. I handed it in on this morning.’

Staring open-mouthed at her friend, Ginny huffed in a mixture of annoyance and exasperation. ‘Luna! Why didn’t you tell me?!’

‘I thought you would have done it already.’

‘Obviously not! I completely forgot. And bloody hell, it’s actually worth something. Trust Binns to have an interest in Baba Yaga of all people. Creepy old sod…’ Huffing again and straightening her skirt, the girl grasped Luna’s wrist between demanding fingers and tugged her in the direction of the castle. ‘Come on, I’ve got a six o’clock deadline. It’ll be as much your fault as mine if I end up handing it in late!’

‘No, I don’t think it will be, Ginny.’

‘Say what you will, I blame you if I fail…’

The voices died off into the distance as the two girls hastened from the lakeside, Luna waving vaguely over her shoulder and leaving Harry, Neville and the rest of their class to make their own leisurely way back towards the awaiting dinner. 

‘Enjoy the lesson Neville, Harry?’ Hagrid’s voice, though hushed in an attempt to be heard by only the two boys, still managed to cause all three of the other girls to turn their heads. 

Neville grinned widely. ‘Definitely. It was brilliant. I wish the other sixth years could have seen what we just did; they’d wish they never gave up your class.’

Hagrid positively glowed under the praise. ‘Thanks for that, Neville. Harry, how about you?’

Harry glanced up, far up, at the face that seemed to stretch into the distance above. A slight quirk of nervousness seemed to tug at the tall man’s features, evident even through the bushy tangle of beard and hair. Harry couldn’t quite comprehend that. For some reason, Hagrid appeared to be trying desperately to gain Harry’s favour. From what he could gather from discussing with the other teachers in a very circumspect way, the half-giant seemed to feel he owed it to Harry to ensure his time at Hogwarts was enjoyable. Apparently it had hit him hard that he had failed as the initial collector when Harry was eleven years old.

Well, that and his evidently high regard for Harry’s parents. Few people even mentioned it, but it seemed that many felt it was their responsibility to the deceased couple to care for their son. A strange commitment, given how he had never seen most of the people before his sixteenth birthday.

Offering his own appreciation, Harry forced his expression to soften. It was still difficult, but he was getting better at it. ‘It was great, Professor. I think I agree with Neville. Your classes are probably one of my favourites.’

It was evidently the right thing to say. All anxiety dropped from the man’s face to be replaced by an even more radiant smile that positively split his bearded chin in half. ‘Argh… I’m happy to hear that. Really.’ He scratched his head bashfully before stepping up to the three girls that walked before them. Confidence boosted, it appeared he now felt it his duty to ask the same questions of the rest of his class. His eagerness wasn’t disappointed. Their replies were similarly glowing.

Dropping off their buckets at Hagrid’s hut, Neville and Harry made their slow, wandering way back up to the castle. The two Hufflepuff girls trudged even more slowly behind them, rapidly falling into the distance, while Mandy strode ahead, pulling a book from her bag and skilfully flipping open the hard cover to read while she walked. The distance she put between them afforded them its own privacy.

‘It really was brilliant.’ Neville smiled slowly, as though just realising the truth of his words. He glanced towards Harry, a slow smile spreading across his face. ‘You enjoyed yourself.’

It was a statement, not a question. Harry nearly paused in his step. ‘Hmm?’

‘You were smiling. Well, sort of… you know you, well, you looked like you were having fun.’ Neville tugged awkwardly on his fringe. ‘You don’t often look like that.’

Harry was silent. He hadn’t even realised he had let his face slip into expression. The frequency of such seemed to be occurring more and more. It was a little disconcerting, and Harry couldn’t quite decide whether it terrified him or left him with a feeling of…wonder.

‘You too.’

‘What was that?’

‘You enjoyed yourself too. Not as much as you do in Herbology, I might add, but still.’

Neville chuckled. His naturally green thumb lent itself to skill in Herbology, a skill that manifested in his natural interest. The taller boy showed quite an aptitude for the class, something that initially irked Blaise when he realised his own mild interest was overshadowed by the Gryffindors slightly higher skill. Not that it held a candle on Neville’s exceptional skill in Defence Against the Dark Arts, but he was certainly in the upper reaches of the class. Something Harry had found himself benefitting from one more than one occasion.

‘Yeah, I can’t really deny that. The hippocampus were amazing, though. I never really expected to enjoy Magical Creatures as much as I do after last year’s classes.’ He grimaced a little guiltily at Harry’s questioning gaze. ‘We always say Hagrid’s great, but truth is fifth year was bollocks. I only really continued ‘cause I didn’t want him to be, you know, without a class.’

‘Ron and Hermione didn’t feel quite the same loyalty?’

Another chuckle. ‘Nah, but I can’t say I blame them. Ron didn’t have such a great time of it with the chimera last year. I’m pretty sure he’s still got a scar from the snakebite. And Hermione has such a full timetable she can hardly keep up with it herself. She’s always like that. You know she had to use a time-turner in third year, just so she could get to all of her classes?’

Harry frowned slightly, unfamiliar with the term. ‘Time turner?’

‘Yeah, little hourglass thingo. You turn it backwards the number of hours you want to travel back in time.’

Harry felt his eyes widen unconsciously, too startled to keep a reign on his surprise. ‘Travel back in time?’

Neville grinned broadly at his expression. ‘Never heard of a time turner before?’

‘Neville, time travel is completely unrealistic. Impossible. Well, travelling backwards in time, anyway. Forwards? Maybe, if you could induce some sort of stasis, but backwards is just…’

‘Harry, I did it with her. It’s not impossible, we really did travel back in time.’

‘No, it’s not possible. I don’t care what you say, time is a man-made concept. You can’t act upon it to change the universe around you when it essentially doesn’t exist.’

Neville was clutching his sides, laughing with hearty chuckles by the time Harry finished his tirade. Tears bubbled from his eyes, swimming and threatening to fall as he struggled with his merriment. ‘Jeez, Harry, you’re so…’ Wiping fingers across eyelids, he straightened with difficulty. ‘Honestly, I don’t know how you do it. For someone who seems so mellow, you certainly are set in your ways. How can you dispute something that has actually been proved to work?’

Harry frowned slightly at Neville’s amusement, but there was little heat in his disgruntlement. It wasn’t exactly the first time he had encountered such circumstances. ‘It just doesn’t make sense.’

‘But it’s magic.’

‘I don’t think that really counts as an argument, Neville.’ The comment only set the Gryffindor boy to laughing once more. 

They continued back towards the castle with easy, superficial conversation. Neville appeared in a remarkably good mood, what with the enduring enthusiasm from the hippocampus encounter and his delight over Harry’s persistent denial of what he deemed ‘factual’. However, as they stepped into the shadow of the entrance hall, his good-humour dampened slightly and the smile slipped from his lips. Harry cocked his head towards the other boy questioningly, not speaking but simply awaiting an explanation he could feel was on the tip of Neville’s tongue.

‘It’s probably a little bit late for me to make dinner. Heading up to Dumbledore’s again, you know? I think I’ll have to just drop by the kitchens on the way back to the dorms…’ The Gryffindor tugged a lock of his hair once more, clearly unfinished but struggling to find the words to continue. Harry persisted in his silence. The comment so obviously awaited expansion, raising more questions than it answered, but he simply waited. Neville would work his difficulties out more efficiently without verbal input, and Harry was, as a general rule, reluctant to initiate conversation.

Glancing back into the rapidly darkening outdoors, Neville cleared his throat. ‘Hannah and Susan are taking a while…’ It was so obviously a stalling mechanism that he even adopted a guilty grimace before switching his focus back to Harry.

‘Say Harry, I know I haven’t known you for long, but even Hermione admits you have a different take on things that is, what did she call it, enlightening? Would you…mind sharing your opinion about something?’

Harry cocked his head, shrugging. It was about as passively as he could reply, and Neville seemed to relax marginally because of it. He smiled weakly. 

‘Me and Ron and Hermione, we… you’ve probably heard some of the stuff that we’ve done since we started at Hogwarts.’

Harry nodded. ‘Yeah, I was a little bit surprised when I heard about your adventures from Draco. No one could say your schooling hasn’t been eventful.’

Laughing, slightly bitterly, Neville turned towards the semi-opened doors of the Great Hall across, the faintly echoing babble of students buzzing with warmth. ‘That’s putting it lightly.’ Turning back towards Harry, he opened his mouth, closed it again, and seemed to struggle for a moment. Taking a deep breath he begun, as if by rote.

‘Since I was a baby, there’s been this thing with Voldermort. You know Voldermort, right?’ Harry raised his eyebrow scathingly, eliciting a humourless laugh from the Gryffindor. ‘Of course you have. Even Muggleborn’s know him.

‘Well, when I was a baby, this evil bastard, he… there was this prophecy, and it put the brilliantly stupid idea in his head that somehow I was going to grow up to be his ultimate nemesis or something like that. In his infinite wisdom, he decided that it was better to get in early, erase any possible threat before it could manifest.’

Neville’s tone had become monotonous, his eyes fixed on the floor. The offhandedness of his tone bellied his expression, which had hardened as he struggled to suppress the anger that smouldered in his eyes. Harry watched the other boy quietly, immobile as he contemplated the possibility of the Gryffindor bursting into an angry tirade.

‘October thirty-first, fifteen years ago, he came to my parent’s house. Dad wasn’t home; he went to gran’s for something-or-other. Never found out what. Dad doesn’t like to talk about it. But Voldermort, he came to our house and he… he tried to kill me. He killed my mum, but somehow, when he tried to kill me, it didn’t work. Somehow, the spell backfired and hit him instead. Gave me this scar as a souvenir.’ Neville pulled back his fringe to reveal the jagged mark on his forehead, coughing that dry, humourless chuckle again that echoed through the empty hall again. ‘I guess he was right to be scared, huh? My mum died that night, instead of me, and Voldermort disappeared. For ten years, at least.

‘Now he’s back. You’ve probably heard as much, yeah?’ Harry nodded his silent assent, unwilling to break into Neville’s train of thought. The other boy’s eyes had flattened into an intimidating intensity. ‘He’s on a rampage, so to speak, and he’s only growing stronger. I don’t know if you’ve seen what’s been in the Prophet, but it’s getting pretty bad. And for some reason, Dumbledore and just about everyone else has it in their head that I’m sort of going to defeat him. Or something.’

Finally, Neville looked up to Harry. Harry fought to keep his face open and welcoming, not a familiar expression but one that wasn’t entirely difficult to assume. ‘Harry, they want me to kill him. I have to… Dumbledore says that we have to kill him, to finally be rid of him. That’s where I’m going tonight, to go and see Dumbledore and try to learn… stuff. He shows me… important things. Things that will apparently help me to fight him.’

Neville drew in a ragged breath. The intimidating façade seemed to slip like melted butter from his face, leaving a worried expression in its place. He dragged a hand through his hair, spiking it up haphazardly, and Harry was startled to behold his utter world-weariness. It was so pronounced that Harry marvelled at how well he had hidden it. What was almost as surprising was that Neville, for whatever reason, found Harry a worthy recipient to his confession. 

Waiting in silence, Harry awkwardly stroked at Lyssy’s head where she still perched on his shoulder, eyes fixed on Neville’s downturned face. For the first time in a long time, he wished he were better with words. Blaise always praised him for his listening abilities, but failed to realise that they were so developed due to a general lack of speaking in his past experience. Biting his lip, he took a step forward, hoping that if nothing else the proximity would provide a comfort.

Finally, Neville glanced up at Harry. The smaller boy was startled, and a little bit daunted, to see the faint glassiness of tears in the Gryffindor’s eyes. ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to… I know that it would make more sense to talk to Ron or Hermione, but for some reason…’

All of a sudden it clicked. Neville was afraid. Desperately afraid, but the lurking fear that pervaded every student at the school, every teacher on some level, prevented him from expressing his own fears and confiding in his trusted fellows. Harry, an outsider, provided the perfect outlet for him to express his worries without the fears it would impress upon his fellow classmates. Classmates that placed their hopes upon Neville’s novice shoulders.

It wasn’t long after beginning his attendance at Hogwarts that Harry came to the realisation that Neville was deemed Wizarding World’s official Saviour. Harry had accepted the title along with every other fact that he had confronted; with slight confusion and wary integration. Now, upon feeling the physical waves of distress emanating form Neville, the reality hit him.

‘What should I do, Harry? Voldermort is evil, I have no doubt about that. What he has done to so many people, what he did to my mum… Someone like that shouldn’t have the right to exist. But I’m supposed to kill him. I am.’ A ragged sigh, heaved from Neville’s chest. Raising his eyes from the floor, Harry was caught breathless by the anguish displayed there. It was almost pleading. The poor youth had been backed into a corner and didn’t feel able to allay his fears with anyone.

Struggling internally, a war to overcome his own uncertainties, Harry finally stepped closer to the boy, nearly touching. It was with physical effort that he forced a smile to his face, but he managed. Effectively, apparently, for some of the roiling distress eased in Neville’s eyes to be replaced a little by surprise.

‘Neville, I don’t think anyone can tell you what you should do. I don’t think it’s fair to have thrust you into the position you are now but…’ Anxiety rising with his nervousness – he desperately wished to offer the perfect words of comfort – his hand inched briefly towards his collarbones before he caught himself. ‘Honestly, if you were told that you could leave it up to someone else, would you?’

Bafflement replaced the remaining distress on Neville’s face almost completely. ‘Huh?’

‘If Dumbledore, if all of the Ministry of Magic, suddenly told you that you didn’t have to kill him, you didn’t have to fight anymore. Just focus on your education, live your life and let someone else deal with everything, would you?’

Something akin to anger tightened Neville’s eyes. He locked his jaw, raising his chin. ‘I couldn’t just leave everything alone. How could I live normally knowing what’s going on?’

‘So you’d want to be a part of it?’

‘Of course! Voldemort destroyed my family when he- He killed my mum! How could I just rest easily when -’

‘Then I think you have your answer.’ Harry thought he himself was almost as surprised as Neville for interrupting the other boy. He couldn’t remember ever speaking so assertively in his life. It was a disconcerting feeling that he smothered in an attempt to focus. ‘Neville, I don’t think anyone could force you to kill that man. But the fact that you want to fight? I think there’s something in you that, even without everyone pushing you, would still seek what you felt is right.’

A dawning comprehension spread across Neville’s face. All of a sudden, determination and satisfaction replaced his anger and distress. A crooked grin curled his lips and he smiled at Harry. ‘It seems kind of obvious now that you’ve said it.’

Harry struggled with his smile in reply. ‘It always does when someone else points it out.’

A faint chuckle met his words. ‘True. Still, thanks.’ Fingering the strap on his bag, Neville turned towards the inner corridors of the school. He paused for a moment, as though caught. ‘Um, anyway. I’ll see you later Harry. I’ve gotta go to Dumbledore’s.’

Harry wasn’t sure what made him do it. He wasn’t even sure how he did it. In a split second decision, he reached out a hand, hesitantly, then with more force, and clasped his fingers on Neville’s shoulder. The Gryffindor started; Harry knew that his friends were aware of his fear-response to any form of contact, even if they didn’t understand that it bespoke of deeply imbedded repulsion that crawled under his skin. Neville’s face said it all.

Riding on his sudden burst of confidence, Harry nodded to his friend. ‘You’ve done pretty well so far, Neville. If ever there was anyone strong enough to pull through, it would be you.’

The crooked grin widened. ‘Thanks, Harry.’ With an invigorating breath, the boy strode across the empty hall, shoes ringing loudly on the stone floor. Just as he was about to begin his climb of the impressive stairwell, he paused once more, turning curiously back towards Harry watching him retreat.

‘Harry.’ He paused, as though pondering his question, before he let out in a rush. ‘When’s your birthday?’

‘What?’

‘Your birthday. What’s the date?’

It was an entirely unexpected question, vastly out of place from the in-depth, emotional exchange they has both partaken in moments before. Harry was at a loss momentarily, floundering to compose himself in the rapid change of topic. ‘Um… it…it’s the thirty-first of July. I’m the same age as you.’

Neville stared at him with an odd expression on his face, a different sort of odd to the roiling confusion of emotions Harry bore witness to before. This time, it was much more difficult to discern it’s nature. ‘The thirty-first. What are the odds…?’

‘What?’

Shaking his head, the Gryffindor smiled a somewhat forced upturning of lips. ‘Nothing, I just realised. Your birthday is only a day after mine.’

‘Really?’ Harry cocked his head, surprised but not as shaken as Neville appeared to be. The taller boy appeared positively astounded by the realisation. It wasn’t so unusual, surely. Everyone had a birthday next to someone elses, and shared it with more people than they could count. ‘I didn’t know. Sorry I missed your birthday.’

The offhand comment drew Neville’s attention, eliciting a more genuine smile this time. ‘No worries. Sorry I missed yours too.’

‘There’s always next year.’

‘Yeah. Next year.’ Sinking back into heavy thought, the youth turned once more and disappeared with the retreating stairs.

Harry watched him go, frowning slightly in bewilderment. It was an odd way to conclude their conversation, but he couldn’t exactly say he was an expert on such things, even with several months of friendship under his belt.

Releasing the pent breathe he didn’t realise he held, Harry turned from the empty stairwell and slipped into the hall. Despite his confusion, a certain sense of satisfaction gripped him, so unexpected that it overrode the faint tingling, the tightening of skin that was almost painful that still remained on his fingers as they protested the lingering warmth of Neville’s shoulder. It was the feeling of actually being able to help someone. He knew that, being who he was, he couldn’t do much. Even so, he resolved to support the Gryffindor. Even if it was only with a poor attempt at a smile and a pat on the back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who has been commenting and kudos-ing! It's really lovely of you to let me know that my story is actually being enjoyed by some people!  
> Next chapter will be diving into the plot a bit - a lot - more. A little bit more of Draco and Harry, too; I know there hasn't been a huge amount so far, but I'm getting there!


	9. Unexpected and Unrequested

‘I won’t take no for an answer, this time. You’ve got no excuse. And ‘I’m scared’ is included in that.’

‘Draco, I never said I was scared. Just that I thought it was a little too dangerous to be appealing.’

‘And that’s why I waited for it to snow. There, you’ve got a cushion if you fall.’

Point out of the window before them, Draco gestured to the smooth white flatness that spanned the school’s grounds, untarnished as yet by footprints. In truth, it had been snowing for a couple of weeks now, but only as the end of term drew steadily closer – barely a week remained – and the teacher’s began to lighten their work loads had they been afforded the opportunity to really revel in the winter season.

Harry followed his gaze, expression faintly dubious. ‘I doubt it would be deep enough to really do much good at cushioning fall of any substantial distance.’

‘And that’s why I’m telling you, I’m going to be with you the entire time. Worst case scenario, one or the other of us casts a levitation charm to catch you if you fall. We’ve both gotten pretty good with them.’

Draco flashed the shorter boy a winning smile. It was only a matter of time, really, before Harry accepted the inevitable and they were out on the quidditch pitch. He may make excuses, may logically deduce a number of reasons not to participate, but he never actually refused outright. It was a strange habit Draco had noticed in him, not entirely unappealing, and definitely beneficial, especially when Draco sought to get his own way. Like now.

‘Look, just give it one go, and if you don’t enjoy it I won’t pester you anymore. As the Slytherin ex-seeker it is basically my duty to ensure everyone in my acquaintance has at least made an attempt at flying.’ As Harry still gazed, considering, out the frost-covered window, Draco drew his winning card. ‘Please?’

Turning from the picturesque scene, Harry’s face softened into that small smile, so faint it was barely there except for the fact that Draco knew it to be. He’d won. As much was apparent in that moment. He felt his smile widen in triumph. Harry could never deny a ‘please’.

‘Alright, but I’ve got to go and get another jacket or something from Featherwood’s rooms. I’m not good with the cold.’

‘I know. But no, you don’t. Magic, Harry. There’s a reason we have it.’

With that, Draco led the way through the corridor with striding confidence, firm in his belief that Harry would follow. A faint sigh, followed by soft footfalls confirmed his belief.

It truly was cold when the pair stepped outside. The chilling breeze wasn’t strong enough to pose a threat to Draco’s long-anticipated flying lesson, but the iciness of the Scottish winter drew clouds of fog with each of their breaths and immediately brought a shiver to shoulders and a red flush to pale cheeks. Quickly drawing his wand, Draco cast a Warming Charm over himself, then Harry; though competent enough himself, Harry rarely took the initiative in casting magic. He claimed he had lived ‘too long without it to be his first port of call’ for such mundane tasks.

Facing the waiting figure beside him, Draco beamed in barely suppressed excitement. ‘Right. Quidditch pitch. I’ve asked Blaise if we could borrow his broom and he said we could, so long as it isn’t returned it in splinters.’

Harry huffed a soft sigh, something that Draco had come to understand was a little like a laugh in the other boy. ‘The fact that he even thinks that such a possibility is a foreseeable outcome doesn’t exactly fill me with confidence.’

‘Don’t worry, I’m sure he wouldn’t be too upset if you happened to crash the broom. So long as you replaced it.’

‘You’re not helping, Draco.’

The blonde laughed as he led the way towards the distant, towering bleachers. He could honestly say that, after months of Harry’s company, he found that he truly enjoyed spending time with the other boy. He was unlike anyone he had ever met, and that wasn’t a bad thing in the slightest. When he came to the realisation that Harry wasn’t expressionless, that he didn’t simply lack the capacity for emotions but instead kept them mostly hidden, expressing them in a subtler way, it made the newcomer even more interesting. It hadn’t been initially apparent to Draco, but the realisation that there was more to the other boy than simple blankness made him infinitely more intriguing.

The additional realisation that Harry possessed a tailored wit, was sarcastic even, yet affixed his poker face so firmly that it was at first unnoticeable, was even more delightful. Though he lacked the maliciousness that Draco at times found himself prone to – not that he was particularly ashamed of the fact – they shared quite a bit in terms of a sense of humour. It made spending time with Harry, even had he not set himself the responsibility of ‘protecting’ him, enjoyable and not the chore that he had at times feared it would be. If only he could shift that strange flatness from his green eyes; it had become something of a goal to draw even the faintest expression from their glassiness. Even that faint, very faint, flicker or a smile left him feeling triumphant.

Draco wondered more than once if the veil Harry had drawn across his eyes had something to do with the incident in Defence Against the Dark Arts all those weeks ago. Or at least, that it was related to what had triggered it. For there had been such a distinct retreat from the brief glimpses into emotion, a retreat that was only recently turned about, that it seemed unfathomable that it could be unrelated. It irked him sometimes, that Draco still didn’t understand what had happened, or why. He had hoped that, in time, Harry would feel comfortable enough to confide in him, to explain even. Harry barely confided anything in others, rarely asked for help, even in such harmless cases as struggling with his schoolwork. Draco, and took it upon himself to learn to read the subtle hints that the other boy was struggling was struggling. He knew Hermione at least was attempting a similar attentiveness. Yet even so, there was not the slightest hint of an explanation.

Deep down, when he got over his affront, Draco knew it was a selfish desire on his part to know more. He knew that it was driven more by his own curiosity than any belief that he could truly assist with whatever had hurt his appointed-charge so badly. Draco didn’t know where such a curiosity had come from – why should he care? – but that didn’t seem to hold any sway over his continued inquisitiveness. Just as the knowledge that it was, admittedly, selfish barely soothed of his disgruntlement.

So instead, he simply sought to immerse himself in Harry’s company as thoroughly as he could. Each glimmering insight beneath the expressionless mask felt… warming, and that such expressionlessness was being chipped away more and more frequently, little smiles and the faintest quirking of facial features more noticeable, made every second he spent with Harry that much more enjoyable. It was like unwrapping a present, a gift of many layers. And Draco had always been partial to gifts. At times, he humoured himself by considering that he was something like a parent watching their baby smile for the first time, speak his first word or take his first steps. He knew he was ridiculously paternal in his protectiveness, but for some reason it didn’t really bother him. He wanted what was best for Harry – a decidedly un-Malfoy and very un-Slytherin sentiment – and if he could witness the smiling responses that such elicited it made it all the more worth it.

And right now, learning to fly a broomstick was definitely what was best for Harry. It was simply coincidental that it also satisfied some of Draco’s needs in the process.

‘I can’t believe that Muggles don’t have quidditch.’

Harry turned towards him, an eyebrow rising slightly in an expression that would have equated to an explosive and derogatory snort in anyone else. ‘Just how would you suppose that people without magic could play a magical sport?’

Draco shrugged. ‘Well, it’s just that… I know that there are other sports out there. It’s just that quidditch is definitely the primary source for of international leisure and entertainment. It just seemed so strange that you wouldn’t even know what it is.’

‘Have you ever played football before? Basketball? Tennis?’

Draco paused in their trek through the snow, a frown wrinkling his brow. His confusion didn’t entirely smother the glimmer of satisfaction he felt at the question, however. Not the words themselves, but the sentiment. Harry had only recently begun to ask questions himself when not in class, even as conversation segues. It gave Draco a warm feeling when he considered the simple change in the other boy. ‘What exactly is that?’

‘Those.’

‘What?’

‘Those. Three different sports. And that’s to say nothing of everything else: golf, baseball, lacrosse, volleyball, polo-‘

‘I know that one.’

A flicker of amusement twitched Harry’s lips. ‘Why am I not surprised?’

Draco grinned in sly amusement. ‘Oh? And what makes you say that?’

‘You’re a spoilt rich boy, Draco, you admit it yourself.’ His smile widened minutely at Draco’s falsely serious nod of agreement. ‘Not that I’m saying that all polo players are spoilt rich people but there is a certain stereotype. Of course you’ve heard of polo. I’m surprised you don’t play it, or do you use hippogriffs and ride in the sky?’

Laughing at the image, Draco shook his head. He would allow the jibe, sarcasm and all. ‘No, we play on simple horses, though I know they used to use unicorns before they were declared endangered. It was a much bloodier sport back then, I believe.’

Harry sent a pointed stare at him from the corner of his eye. ‘Now why doesn’t that surprise me either?’

Ignoring the dig and suppressing a smile with growing difficulty, Draco continued. ‘My father made sure I knew how to adequately sit a horse when I was six years old. I have to say, it never really held the appeal that quidditch does. It’s unnatural to ride on something with a mind of it’s own.’

‘So much more unnatural than riding on a flying broom?’

The grin spread across his face of it’s own accord. Draco sniffed pompously, attempting to reassert his control of the situation. ‘Infinitely.’

Harry huffed a breath of his own amusement in that little almost-laugh of his. ‘Well, I can’t say that I can truly picture you flying a broom in the sky, but it doesn’t seem any more fantastical than you sitting on a horse.’

‘I resent your judgment, Defaux! I am an exceptional rider.’

Harry offered another faint smile, ducking his head as though satisfied with Draco’s false affront. ‘But you didn’t like it?’

Cocking his head and gazing at the sky, Draco considered the question. ‘It’s not that I disliked it. I actually quite enjoyed the lessons. They were one of the few times my father acted with any semblance of affection in public.’ Memories drifted to the surface of the hearty laughter ringing across the arena, such a different sound when released from the private confines of walls. The warmth that cradled the memory was enough to erase the faint unease that gripped him at expressing his affection to openly. It was odd, talking to Harry. He seemed to elicit such responses in others; Draco had walked in on several such situations between the dark-haired boy and his caretakers on more than one occasion. People just seemed to confide in him. Draco put it down to his ability to remain silent at just the right moments. If nothing else, Harry was an adept listener.

This moment, though, Harry wasn’t silent. A soft hum drew Draco’s pondering attention to his companion. He couldn’t say for certain – Harry was hard to read at the best of times – but something akin to yearning, wistfulness even, clouded his face. The boy tilted his head as he returned the stare. ‘You really love your father.’

Even such a blunt statement didn’t give rise to flustered blathering or blatant denials from Draco as would have been elicited from just about anyone else. He simply shrugged, acknowledging the truth for what it was in much the same way he acknowledged Harry’s realisation of it. ‘You could say that, I guess. Most purebloods – and Slytherins, for that matter – attempt distance themselves from their families as little more than blood relatives. A ‘scarce affection breeds self-sufficiency’ sort of approach. ’ He stroked his fringe from his face; the chilling wind, though hardly strong, was merciless towards any attempts at styling. ‘I suppose my family would seem the same for most, to anyone who looked but… Pansy used to say that it was like we had an Eternity Bond, we cared so much for one another when out of the public eye. She naturally thought it quite horrifying, but I can’t say I would be opposed to it.’

‘Eternity Bond?’

Nodding, Draco let his gaze drift back towards the gradually nearing quidditch pitch and the showers and locker rooms squatting behind them. ‘It’s something of a fabled bond, and not widely known to any save pureblood families – it’s just that old. I suppose most people think it’s only a figment of legend because the details are so hazy. Supposedly, the bond is the embodiment of pure love, though no one actually knows whether it’s actually specifically linked to familial love. Its just that all records indicate the bond occured between family members, a sort of loyalty thing. Some think that it was used as a way to induce compulsive servitude in a particularly faithful slave. Or a loyal son to his father.’ Turning towards Harry, he offered a cynical smile. ‘You can see why Pansy thought it rather a snide allusion.’

Harry didn’t look at him, his own gaze fixed upon his feet as they slushed though the snow and a slight frown crinkling his forehead. He seemed in serious contemplation, the sort of expression that Draco noticed he sometimes adopted when uncovering a particularly interesting magical fact. He could pinpoint the instances now.

‘It sounds beautiful.’

Pausing in surprise, Draco was nearly left behind as the dark-haired boy continued in his stride. Utilising the extra length of his legs, he had to nearly break into a jog to catch up to him again. Silence hung between them for a moment, before, with more hesitancy than he cared to admit, Draco spoke. ‘Most don’t, but I’ve always thought so. If I had the opportunity…’

‘With your parents?’

Draco nodded. This time, he felt faint warmth in his cheeks. It was rather embarrassing, especially coming from a ‘cold-hearted Slytherin, but, as he had become accustomed to, talking to Harry could somehow take the embarrassment and draw it into the open, denying endless pondering and growth into mortification. ‘It’s said that it creates a sort of sixth sense awareness between the bonded partners: just knowing their location, feeling a shadow of their emotions… It would be reassuring, what with…everything.’

He had to clamp his lips together to halt the flow of confession. The heat grew more deeply in his cheeks and he resolutely refused to meet the gaze he could feel peering up at him. Harry’s soft, wispy voice overrode any growing denial on his part, however. ‘That would truly be wonderful.’

The words were spoken with true sincerity. Draco felt his internal struggle slip away like sand through his fingers and composure reassert itself. Dare he say that he felt better for voicing his feelings? Now that was embarrassing.

Offering a smile of gratitude, Draco led the way into the stillness of the empty locker rooms that loomed above them. Harry trailed behind, gazing curiously around him at the reality behind the quidditch matches. They were nothing special – a series of interconnected, low-ceiling rooms that smelt faintly of dampness and lined with benches and cupboards – but Harry didn’t seem to mind. A fact that Draco was quite satisfied with.

Draco enforced the desperate need for his ward to accompany him to every match and, being that he had forsaken his seat on the team for ‘studying’ purposes, Draco could join him. He hadn’t missed the amusement touched with faint awe that had played lightly across Harry’s face as he watched the game. It was in that moment, months ago now, that Draco decided Harry had to fly a broom.

Even non-quidditch players kept their brooms in the sports building. As such, Blaise’s broom was stashed right beside Draco’s, the polished wood of expensive make setting both brooms aside from their less impressive fellows. Snatching the two handles, Draco pointed with his chin towards the pitch, ignoring the still-sceptical expression Harry offered him. ‘Come on, let’s go. Hurrying would probably be a good idea; we won’t be able to fly when it gets dark.’

‘And what a tragedy that would be.’

Grinning at Harry’s muttered reply, Draco led them once more into the cold afternoon. ‘You say that, but you’ll like it. I guarantee.’

It was a strange experience, teaching someone the basics of flying. Draco felt like it was a skill he had always known; like breathing, flying wasn’t something he remembered ever learning. It was ingrained in him. Striding into the centre of the pitch, Draco offered a brief overview of how to sit, how to best set one’s balance, how to steer an admittedly unyielding vehicle. The best he could suggest, however, was just to ‘follow your instincts, feel the broom and let it lead you.’ At that, the scepticism upon Harry’s face became even more apparent. Draco wondered whether, if the wind blew just so, the expression would remain a permanent fixture.

‘Okay, well, just give it a go. We’ll start off the way that you’re supposed to do it.’ Placing Blaise’s broom on the ground beside Harry, he directed the other boy to place his hand just above the polished wood. ‘Now, this part is really telling of how well you’re going to do with the broom. All you have to do is say ‘up’ and the precision with which the broom rises into your hand should indicate…’

Draco raised an eyebrow as the dark wood settled easily into Harry’s hand. ‘Of course, you wouldn’t have to say anything, right?’ Harry only quirked his lips in response. ‘Whatever. Okay, let’s go then.’

Upon consideration, Draco would have had to say that Harry had flown before. He didn’t know when or where but the smaller boy was far too comfortable on the object that he still claimed was ‘maybe a little dangerous to be using without some sort of protection or supervision’. When they had overcome the halting attempts to reach an understanding of exactly how to launch oneself into the air from standing immobility, it had been too easy. Far too easy.

‘See! I told you you’d be fine.’ Draco called across the quidditch pitch as he swooped and dived, leading a far more elaborate route than that which Harry followed. In spite of his lack of dives and loops, Harry as remarkably relaxed in his seat and controlled the broom with relative ease. ‘Are you sure you’ve never flown before? For someone who claims that sitting fifty feet off the ground with only a broom beneath you is ‘too dangerous’, you certainly seem pretty comfortable. Not to mention actually being able to control the broom.’

Shrugging, Harry leant into the broom beneath him and brought it in a lazy dip before drawing it up again and rising. Yes, far too comfortable. ‘I don’t have much of a problem with heights; it just seems dangerous, being so high off the ground. As for controlling it… I’ve ridden a bike before, and that’s got its own level of danger and difficult handling, I suppose. Maybe that’s why.’

Draco frowned as the image of a Muggle bicycle fit itself into his mind. Dangerous? Hardly. ‘You honestly think a Muggle bike has anything on a broom?’

‘Have you ever ridden one before?’

‘No.’

‘Then how would you know?’

He didn’t smile, but Draco got the distinct impression that Harry was thoroughly amused at his expense. Snorting with a roll of his eyes, Draco turned another loop. ‘Alright, Defaux, enough chit-chat. The sun isn’t going to wait forever, and you haven’t even seen the best of what you can do with a broom.’

It was liberating, to fly once more. Draco had truly missed his time on the broom, and though he knew that, with everything else that he had going on this year, it was necessary to drop his spot on the Slytherin team, he felt the absence of quidditch sorely. The rush of wind in his hair, the gut-clenching thrill of plummeting rapidly through the sky, and the sheer freedom of being able to fly as fast and as high as he wanted. It was an experience Draco wouldn’t have exchanged for the world. Or he didn’t think he would have, only a year ago.

The pair flew for what seemed an eternity that was still too short. The chill of the wind rushing by Draco’s head was disregarded in the face of his enjoyment. He revelled in soaring rings around Harry, but with remarkable speed Harry soon made such taunting impossible as he looped and dived with increasing dexterity. Draco was impressed, to say the least. Who would have thought that the quiet, unassuming boy would have had the hardiness to dive within feet of the ground and pull out of the potentially crashing end with nary a flicker of fear? Well, maybe those who had seen him perform magic could have guessed, but even Draco was surprised. It was with no small amount of delight that he embraced this newfound partner in flight. No longer holding back, the Slytherin loosed his mellow pace and set about showing Harry what flying really was.

It had been far too long since he had flown with such joy.

Too soon, however, the faint pinkness on the horizon darkened to a purple that finally urged them from the air. Draco slung his leg with regret from the seat of his broom, casting a longing glance back into the evening skies. A sigh of regret pushed thick fog from his mouth.

Harry caught his gaze, cocking his head as a question quirked his eyebrows. Draco shook his head, turning back to the broom in his hands with a faint smile. ‘I miss flying.’ It felt like a confession.

‘Then we’ll have to do it more often.’

It was such a simple phrase, so unassuming in its straightforwardness, yet Draco felt a faint prickling in his eyes at the flicker of warmth that touched Harry’s words. Raising his eyes to meet those of the bespectacled boy’s once more, he offered a grateful smile when words failed him. The answering faint softness of Harry’s face spoke volumes. It was perfect, really, a perfect conclusion to the liberation of the afternoon. Draco doubted there could be anything to shatter his mood.

Until he saw the owl.

A flicker of movement from his periphery drew Draco’s gaze to the Forbidden Forest. Soaring rapidly just above the jagged tent of trees, an enormous, dark-winged bird soared towards the quidditch pitch. If Draco had any doubt as to the identity of the owl, the destination it sought would have removed any confusion. Draco and Harry were the only possible recipients of the envelope swinging from taloned claws, and Draco highly doubted it was for Harry. Harry never got mail.

The striped bird flew straight towards him. On reflex, Draco raised his arm, and the full, solid weight of the creature sagged his arm markedly, straining at his shoulder. Yellow eyes stared directly into his face, and the Draco could have sworn the glare was filled with sadistic satisfaction as the bird’s grip tightened painfully around his arm, cutting into his robes.

Consciously avoiding the sharp beak of the disgruntled creature, Draco slipped faintly trembling fingers towards the envelope tied firmly at its ankle. As soon as the twine uncurled from the scaled skin, the frowning creature tightened its grip once more, force building in its powerful legs, and launched itself back into the sky. Evidently, no reply was required.

Draco almost feared to meet Harry’s questioning gaze. He couldn’t offer a half-hearted explanation, waving the unexpectedness of the delivery off with carefree intent. For he knew, he just knew that it wasn’t good news that found him that evening. The sick feeling in his gut denied him even the chance to attempt such nonchalance, and Draco doubted that Harry would be fooled by the façade anyway. He never had been before.

Swallowing the thick lump in his throat, Draco pried the expensive parchment open, snapping the plain wax seal with a resounding crack.

_Draco,_

_I have been informed of your development with the little project you have undertaken at school this year. My sister assures me that you have made great progress. I have not yet been to visit our friend in the quieter regions of Diagon Alley to witness its performance for myself, but I have no doubt as to the validity of your mother’s words. She have no reason to lie to me._

_I write to inform you, my nephew, that our mutual Master is similarly satisfied. He admits the difficulty of this endeavour for a wizard not yet of age, but you have proved yourself up to the task. He wishes you peaceful holidays; unless you have something to add to your mother’s glowing report, he does not deem it necessary for you to impose upon his time. I expect you to use your break wisely, as befits a descendant of the House of Black. There is much that can be learnt from the Malfoy library, much that would undoubtedly aid our cause. You should familiarise yourself with it._

_I must applaud you on your success so far, Draco, even as I am aware that your project is not yet complete. I look forward to partaking in the fruits of your labour, as I’m sure you do also. Your aunt eagerly awaits our reunion, and I pray that your success will only continue._

_Be aware, my nephew, of our Master’s plans, and the implications of a failure of such plans. Should the goals of your assignment be unfulfilled, I expect you shall have a less than enjoyable summer to anticipate. Summer may, in fact, be rather long in coming for one who fails in such an important task._

_Write me if you should feel the need to discuss further, Draco. I am always available to offer a listening ear._

_Your Loving Aunt_

Draco could barely read the finishing lines, his fingers shivering and trembling the paper so badly. He was aware of, and yet not registering, Harry’s soft queries, feel the motion of flowing air as he stepped closer towards him.

The letter was not the first he had received from his aunt. Nor was it the first that contained a sparsely hidden death threat, though Draco had to admit she was getting slightly more eloquent with her words. What truly unnerved him were the congratulations – his aunt and his ‘master’ were pleased with his apparent success so far. A success that, dare he even think it, was non-existent.

What had his parents been thinking? To claim that he was in any way progressing in fixing the accursed cabinet… They were signing his death warrant. What could possibly urge them to profess such a fallacy? The only benefit it would afford would be to by a scant offering of time –

The realisation hit him fiercely. Buying them time. If his failure was indeed as profound as he was beginning to suspect, then extending the inevitable was the best he could hope for. Had his parents felt the same? Was that why they had told his aunt, informed Him, that he was making progress when he had assured them both that he was making anything but? The prospect was terrifying.

Finally dropping the parchment, now heavy with meaning and horrifying potential, into his pocket, Draco raised his face to Harry. The other boy’s brow was furrowed with concern, something Draco had rarely seen before, but the novelty barely registered.

‘I…um… Sorry. I have to go.’

Harry was silent for a moment, eyes flickering between both of Draco’s. That expressionless flatness, so oddly penetrating and broken only by his faint frown, was enough to drive Draco to drop his chin and grit his teeth. Anything to hide the terror that was rapidly swelling within him.

Finally, with the same simplicity he always affected, Harry nodded. ‘Of course. I’ll put the brooms back.’ Reaching out, Harry pried the chilled wood from Draco’s fingers. His gloved hands brushed briefly against the Slytherin’s, a gesture that could have been accidental yet felt oddly intentional and comforting in its intent. Offering the ghost of a reassuring smile that Draco barely saw, Harry clutched both brooms to his chest and headed back into the darkness of the shadowed sports building.

Draco released a sigh that was nearly a sob upon Harry’s departure. The sudden blurriness of his vision made seeing now impossible, but that didn’t stop his from spinning rapidly and nearly running back towards the castle. He had to find Crabbe and Goyle. He had to work on the cabinet, because it wasn’t only his life that was at stake. It was also that of his parents.

* * *

He’d been avoiding just about everyone for a week now. Between attending classes and snatching some shut-eye, Draco spent every second he could in the Room of Requirement. Not that he slept much anyway. How could anyone sleep with the threat of death looming ominously over their shoulder? Still, more often than not, when he did sleep it was in the junk-room itself, slouched heavily against a pile of overturned ornaments or slumped in a dusty, moth-eaten couch. The resulting pained joints didn’t help the descending spiral of his mood.

He didn’t eat in the Great Hall. He barely ate at all, in fact. When he did, it was only when exhaustion drove him to the kitchens, the location of which was common knowledge to just about every Slytherin older than thirteen. The house elves fussed madly over him in their excitement, thrusting more food than he could eat in a lifetime into his arms before insisting he take more with him when he left. Draco was so withdrawn into his own thoughts that he couldn’t even find it in himself to be annoyed by their attempts at servitude.

His absence had not gone unmissed. Blaise and Pansy cornered him at every chance they could, usually outside classes, and bombarded him with questions and exclamations of concern. Draco fended them off to the best of his ability, resorting to silences and even bursts of anger when all else failed. His friends only grew more frustrated, however, and seethed silently when ignored. It was possibly only the presence of Crabbe and Goyle, their constant companionship as silent and impersonal as ever, that reassured them that he wasn’t entirely cutting himself off from people in general. Not that the nearly-conjoined hulking boys offered much by way of friendship. Any attempts at developing the bonds that were so prevalent in their parents had been nearly dropped in recent years; any requests to join of Draco, Blaise and Pansy’s in their weekend plans was seen more as a duty of the trio than any friendship on their part.

Draco was not fooled into believing that their assistance with his ‘project’, as his aunt termed it, was anything more than a similar sense of duty on their part. He had not doubt that, just as Lucius had suggested he utilise their eyes and ears, Crabbe and Goyle Senior had both enforced as much of their children.

Blaise and Pansy were not the only ones that noted his abrupt change of attitude. Hermione had been the first of the Gryffindors to approach him, concern written deeply into the lines of her forehead, but she had been shortly followed by Neville, and even Ron. In Defence, he could feel Severus’s eyes upon him, and his godfather wasn’t the only teacher who had become abruptly attentive.

In fact, the only one who wasn’t remarkably changed in his attitude was Harry. That in itself was somewhat surprising, and his contemplation of what it meant had even drawn him briefly from his obsessive consideration of the Vanishing Cabinet. Aside from his initial show of concern when he had witnessed Draco receiving the letter from his aunt, Harry had been so normal in his interactions with the Slytherin that it was almost strange. He didn’t watch him with eyes of thinly veiled concern, nor ask questions Draco couldn’t possibly answer. He didn’t offer to help with homework as Hermione had done, nor attempt to bully answers out of him like Pansy. No, Harry acted as normal as Harry always had.

Truthfully, Draco couldn’t have asked for more. It was a relief to find that breath of normalcy in his world that had been unexpectedly reduced to the darkened state it had been over the previous summer break. At times, it was only the intermittent classes alongside the quiet boy that enabled him to keep his composure instead of dissolving into tears of fear and frustration.

It was his frustration that was so draining. No matter how long he spent in the Room of Requirement, the progress he made was barely perceivable. He could accurately note every crack and dent, every coil of carving and finely planed surface, yet the magical configuration of the portal remained as much a mystery as it always had. He had run his magical awareness over every aspect of the imposing structure for hours on end, and had only succeeded in reducing himself into a near hysterical state of panic. He was supposed to be good at cracking codes, at discerning the unexplainable, if his Ancient Runes marks were anything to go by. Apparently such skill made little difference, however. How was he supposed to fix something that he didn’t understand? And not only that, but as the end of term drew nearer, he became increasingly aware of the time he would be forced to take away from his rigorous study of the object. Perhaps he should stay at school this Christmas break? Then, at least, he wouldn’t have to face the possibility of confronting his Aunt Bellatrix, as she would most likely attempt to impose upon their space and drill him for the utmost details of his assignment.

On the last day of term, as afternoon slipped into night, Draco stood disconsolately in front of the Vanishing Cabinet once more. His head rested heavily against the hard, dark wood, the cool flatness likely leaving a mark on his pale forehead. Not that he cared. Not that he really cared about anything much anymore. It wasn’t like he was going to survive much longer anyway. He may as well forfeit his attempts now, given the sheer amount of time wasted in the room of discarded junk and lost items.

Pushing off from the sickeningly familiar hardwood, Draco turned towards the exit. He wasn’t sure how long he had spent in the Room today, but at this point he didn’t really care. He was exhausted, and if the brief glimpses in the warped mirror he passed on his retreat were any indication, he looked it too. Tired, worn, and utterly disconsolate.

With a sigh, he passed into the corridor, glancing half-heartedly either way to ensure no one saw his departure. Crabbe and Goyle, both disguised as first year boys today, glanced at him dispassionately. Nodding with a maturity that was entirely disconcerting on such young faces, the two offered not a word of farewell before starting in the direction of the nearest bathroom. Draco headed in the opposite direction.

He had barely taken a dozen steps when a sharp pain twinged on his left forearm. Wincing, cursing beneath his breath, he tugged the thick material up to his elbow and glared at the writhing dark tattoo that stained his skin. The coiling snake seemed intent on crushing his forearm in a resemblance to the snake it depicted. It caused Draco’s gut to clench uncomfortably. He didn’t know why it moved sometimes, or why it hurt on occasions that were becoming more frequent of late, but he hated it. Any reminder of his connection to the Dark Lord left him sickened. For it was more than simply a tattoo, a brand. It was a magical link to the monster, a sign of servitude that tied him on a deeper level than simple loyalty. Unbreakable, he was forever bound.

Glaring so intently at the mark as he was, Draco didn’t notice Harry’s arrival until the boy was standing right in front of him. When he did, he nearly leapt backwards in a bid to escape the sudden appearance of the other boy. He managed to restrain himself, though flinched violently under Harry’s gaze and rapidly covered his arm once more.

An awkward silence ensured. Well, awkward for Draco. Harry never appeared particularly uneasy with silences, and Draco frequently considered that the boy would be more likely to remain silent for the rest of his life than initiate a conversation. Oh, he talked when spoken to, but Draco didn’t think he could actually recall an instance where Harry had begun any form of communication.

Which was why he was startled once more when Harry spoke. ‘That, on your arm. What is it?’

The silence was static. As he struggled to recover from his surprise, dread set its claws instead into Draco’s gut. It was possibly the worst thing that he could have heard from Harry’s mouth. He had wanted desperately to keep his ultimate secret from his friends, from Harry, to hide his connection to the Dark Lord and conceal the utter hatred that was overridden only by his overwhelming fear. Childishly innocent Harry, who had likely never hated or even disliked someone in his life… Draco couldn’t imagine how the other boy would respond to his own hatred, but even he couldn’t be generous enough to abide the mind-wrenching loathing that consumed him.

‘It’s nothing, Harry. Just a tattoo.’

‘Just a tattoo?’ Harry cocked his head, wide eyes so reminiscent of his little familiar’s that it was disconcerting. ‘What sort of a tattoo causes you pain like that?’

Draco flinched. He had thought he’d hidden his pain quite well, to be honest. ‘It doesn’t hurt, I just… I was just thinking about something-’

‘No, Draco, it was hurting you. And not just physically.’ That odd intensity of Harry’s voice was unprecedented and Draco didn’t quite know how to respond to it. Coupled with the fact that Harry had actually interrupted him. Had he not maintained that expressionless mask, touched only ever so faintly with concern, Draco would have even suspected a Polyjuice potion he was so out of character.

Swallowing his growing unease, Draco dropped his chin. ‘It’s nothing to worry about. Just leave it, Harry. There’s nothing anyone can do about it.’ His voice was unexpectedly harsh, a croaking whisper and he couldn’t quite keep the despair from ringing through his words.

It was because of his downcast eyes that Draco missed the darting fingers that snatched at his wrist, pulling his arm from its robed confines. With a startled cry, Draco made to snatch his arm back from its sudden abduction, but with a strength that seemed impossible in the slight boy, Harry maintained his grasp. It was only for the unconscious and slightly irrational fear of knocking the smaller boy over that he didn’t shake him off like a dog ridding itself of water.

Raising his gaze in horror to the bowed head before him, Draco was once frozen at the sight of the single-minded focus that seemed to still any motion in the corridor. How every little thing that Harry did managed to startle Draco was beyond him, but he couldn’t deny he was ensnared in the boy’s intensity as surely as a moth caught by a spider’s web.

Harry hovered over Draco’s arm, studying the writhing tattoo, almost glare. Except that Harry didn’t glate. Harry never glared. Then, with the fingers of his free hand, he grazed the surface of the skin with his fingertips. It left an oddly ticklish sensation, slightly uncomfortable in contrast to the persistent zaps of pain that continued to radiate from the mark. Draco flinched faintly and the fingers retreated.

A mumble whispered from Harry’s lips.

‘What?’

‘I said it feels…wrong. There is something wrong with this…’

Draco didn’t know what Harry meant. He could only watch as the boy moved even closer, as though studying at the finest details of the skull and noting every scale of the twisted snake. Moving slowly, trance-like, his fingers once more danced along the tattoo, tracing the marks.

The first thing to go was the pain. It cut off abruptly, like a curtain closing off a flood of merciless light and allowing soothing darkness to take its place. The sudden absence caused Draco to close his eyes in relief, and as such, when he fixed his attention back on Harry, the mark barely an inch from his nose, it was with dumbfounded shock that he noticed half of it had disappeared. And continued to disappear. Like ash flaking in a gust of wind, the darkness embedded beneath his skin dissolved, colouring the air in shadowy wisps briefly before dissipating and leaving not even a faint smudge on the paleness of his forearm in its wake.

The disappearance followed the faint trailing of Harry’s fingers, leaving no doubt as to what triggered the eradication. Within moments, only the skull remained, and then not even that. The final curve of a bony cranium, and then nothing. Only smooth, unblemished skin.

Harry released Draco’s captured wrist with a ragged sigh, closing his eyes and sagging slightly. Had Draco been more aware, less shocked perhaps, he would have taken more notice of the abrupt paling of the other boy’s face, the faint wavering and unsteadiness of his knees. As it was, he couldn’t have been more distracted. The pale absence of the mark filled his vision entirely; he had never thought to be free of the physical stain that branded him chained him to the Dark Lord, never since that day in the summer holidays months before. Wonder filled him, a liberating euphoria that was more prevalent even than the joy of flying.

A euphoria that was immediately capped by dread. Oh Salazar, if He finds out…if He realises what’s happened… Horror melted the stunned expression from his face, widening his eyes and instilling a terror even greater than that elicited by his approaching death. If He found out, He would kill Draco immediately. If he was lucky. Every Death Eater, and many who weren’t, was familiar with the extent of the Dark Lord’s lenience. And an open display of disloyalty to the Lord himself was one of the most deliberate ways to incur his wrath.

‘What…how…what did you do?’ Barely a whisper, choked into near silence, escaped Draco’s lips. He slowly raised his gaze to meet Harry’s.

The tiredness morphed abruptly into wariness. It was not a familiar expression to Draco, but looked all too comfortable on Harry’s face. A wariness that bespoke of readiness of flight. ‘I…it was hurting you Draco. I just wanted to make it stop…’

‘Do you…even…you can’t know what this means. Oh God…’ An intense panic clawed at his throat, throbbing behind his eyes. He closed his eyelids and clasped a palm over his face. What am I going to do? I’m dead!

‘I… I’m sorry, Draco, I didn’t mean to… I don’t know why… I just wanted to help you…’ Harry’s voice was barely above a whisper itself, and strangled off into something that sounded like a sob. It was so unexpected, that gasp of emotion, a sound that Draco hadn’t heard since that day in Defence, that it broke through the chaotic cloud of jumbled thoughts in his mind.

With shaking fingers, the Slytherin dropped his hand from his face, opening his eyes. Only to see a flicker of movement at the end of the corridor as Harry disappeared from sight. The boy could move fast, that was for sure.

Dropping his arms to his sides, Draco stood numbly in the middle of the empty walkway. The break in his unleashed terror had placed a measure of control back into his grasp. He struggled to keep a firm hold of it, as he worked out his thoughts.

Calm, remain calm. You’ll be useless if you let your fears get the better of you. It’s not as conclusive as it seems. In fact, as Draco considered, the act may not have been as conclusive in itself at all. There was nothing to say that the Dark Lord was aware of his ‘traitorous’ actions. And if Draco had his way, he would keep it as such.

Because if he could… it meant that he was unchained. He was unchained, anyway. His father still maintained his mark, and both Draco and his mother were bound to the Dark Lord by their loyalty to parent and husband, but he, Draco, was free. The realisation was as breathtaking as it was terrifying.

* * *

The enthusiastic tooting of the train’s engine smothered any attempts at conversation. Not that the Hogwarts students didn’t try, of course, leading to an even louder cacophony of noises on the platform. Thick, white smoke hung over the bustling students as they wove amongst one another, heaving trunks and bird cages and largely getting in each other’s way.

Draco wove amongst the churning mass of young wizards and witches with single-minded focus. Taller than most of his fellows, he gazed across the sea of heads in search of one familiar face in particular. Already absented of his trunk, he made rapid progress from one end of the platform to the other. Unfortunately, even his advantage failed to aid in his search. The face he searched for was not found.

Growling in frustration, the blonde turned towards the train. Maybe Harry had already boarded, had found himself a seat on the train? Most likely in my own cabin. The thought was tinged more with fondness than irritation, however, and Draco even admitted to himself that he would be rather happy to find the slight boy waiting for him there. How different from their first meeting months before.

Draco had calmed substantially since the previous evening. Taking himself immediately to his dormitory, he had worked at regaining his shattered composure for most of the night, running through options and likely outcomes in his head. He had even managed a few hours of sleep, which in itself was impressive given how energetic his brain seemed to be. When he had awoken the next morning, he had concluded that this unlikely and impossible event could in fact benefit him. If he used it wisely. If his secret wasn’t already betrayed from the moment it came into being. He just had to be smart.

The next thought was that he needed to talk to Harry. The mournful words the other boy had left him with upon their departure still rung in his head. He had never heard Harry sound like that before, and profess as he might how much he wanted the other boy to show him more emotions, that one wasn’t quite so welcoming. Draco knew he had to find his ward; if not to see if he was alright, then to at least explain, to thank him even. The unbreakable chain of the Dark Mark had been broken, physically and, as far as he could tell, magically. He didn’t know exactly what that entailed, freedom or a rapidly approaching doom, but that wasn’t important. How many reformed Death Eaters could claim to have experienced as much?

So, of course, Draco had been rehearsing his prepared speech the entire way to the platform, after a quick glance in the Great Hall that morning had proved to be a fruitless search. And, of course, just when he had adequately prepared himself, the strange boy he had taken to so completely over the past months was nowhere to be seen. It was utterly vexing.

‘Draco?’

Dropping his gaze from where they scanned once more over the heads of his fellow students, Draco met Hermione’s eyes. The bushy-haired girl peered up at him with a mixture of uncertainty and eagerness. Draco admitted to feeling a twinge of guilt well up within him. He had been hardly fair to the girl these past days of madly working on the Vanishing Cabinet. He was surprised to realise that he worried that their amicable relationship was damaged irreparably. Muggleborn or not, he… enjoyed her company.

‘Hello, Hermione.’

Just that simple phrase was enough to bring a broad smile to the Gryffindor’s face. Draco bit back a sigh; trust a Gryffindor’s resilience.

‘It’s so good to see you looking a little better. I was worried you were ill or something. You weren’t yourself this past week.’

Nodding his head in acceptance, Draco offered his own, much more subdued smile. ‘Yeah, I haven’t been well. But I’m better now.’ Unconsciously, even when in conversation, his eyes were drawn about the platform in search of Harry. ‘Um, Hermione. You haven’t seen Harry at all, have you? I needed to talk to him about something.’

Hermione adopted a confused, slightly concerned expression. She raised a hand to her mouth as though regretful. ‘Oh, ah, Draco, Harry’s gone home already.’

Draco had to catch himself from stumbling, he spun so quickly towards the Gryffindor. ‘What? When?’

The girl sighed regretfully. ‘Early this morning. He left before most people even had breakfast. He lives in France, so he said Professor McGonagall set up a portkey to take him home for the holidays. Didn’t he tell you?’

Draco shook his head numbly, dropping his eyes from their constant scan. Hermione, biting her lip now in worry, forced carelessness onto her face. ‘Well, I’m not surprised, really. He only told us at dinner a few nights ago, and only because I asked him what he was doing over Christmas. I thought maybe we could catch up, you know, ‘cause three weeks is so long. I never thought I’d begrudge getting an extra week of break to Muggles students, but there you go.’ She shook her head in self-reprimand, a rueful smile curling her lips. ‘Anyway, he said it wasn’t likely, as he was going back to his uncle’s, in Paris.’

Draco barely heard a word of what the Gryffindor was saying. An unexpected pang of loss tightened his chest. He hadn’t even thought about them being separated for three weeks. For some reason, he had just assumed that they would be seeing more of one another. Especially now that he had burst through the surface from his obsessive fixation. He had just been… a little too late.

‘…send owls, I guess, but it’s not the same, you know? Especially seeing as I don’t even have one!’ The statement and rhetorical question drew Draco from his musings, but he was saved from a reply by the bellowing call to board and ear-splitting whistle.

‘I guess we should get aboard. Prefect duties and all.’ Despite her words, Hermione remained stationary, a pillar of immobility amongst the swarming school of students as everyone hastened to stuff themselves through doors that were truly ill equipped to accommodate the mass assault. Chewing thoughtfully on her lip, the girl finally seemed to reach a decision and fixed her gaze determinedly on Draco. ‘Do you want to sit with Ron, Neville and I? I’d guess that Ginny would join us, and maybe Luna, but you’re more than welcome.’

For a moment, Draco was almost tempted. The last few months, his friendship had grown with the Gryffindors. Yes, they were friends, he could no longer deny it. But even so… ‘Thanks anyway, Hermione. I should probably go and sit with Blaise and Pansy.’

Though she attempted to appear accepting, Draco didn’t miss the slumping of the Muggleborn’s shoulders and the slight drooping of eyebrows in disappointment. ‘Oh, well, that’s alright. I assumed you probably would, but it was just a suggestion.’ Clearing her throat awkwardly, the girl took a step towards the clearing doorway to the nearest carriage. She cast a final glance over her shoulder. ‘I guess I’ll see you in the New Year. Merry Christmas, Draco.’

‘You too, Hermione. Happy New Year.’

The Gryffindor cast a small wave over her shoulder as she disappeared through the door of the train. Draco released a regretful sigh himself before following her lead. It was sad, really, that there was suddenly so much distance between them already. In that moment, Draco realised that Harry was more than a common point of interest between the Gryffindor’s and Slytherins. Somehow, quite unexpectedly and without Draco’s notice, the small, quiet transfer student had bridged the gap between their houses. Without him, the divide yawned once more.

Another sigh followed the first, slipping from Draco’s lips. He was sighing a lot lately. And likely would more throughout the holiday break. There was much to do and, contrary to Hermione’s claim, little time to do it in. And disregarding priorities, one of the first things Draco would do when he returned home would be to send an owl to Paris.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: As always, thank you to my wonderful reviewers. You know who you are; I love each and every one of your comments. Thank you always for your words of encouragement!!  
> Once again, posting again shortly. See you soon :)


	10. Returning to Familiar Tortures

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: this chapter contains depictions of rape and violence.  
> If you think this may be offensive or triggering, please don't read at least the first third of the chapter. I don't want to upset anyone unintentionally.

The emptiness of the house was apparent from the moment Harry swung the door hesitantly inwards. No lights beamed brilliance upon the shadows encroaching on the walls with the darkening evening. Not a voice uttered a croak, no feet shuffled on carpet. There was no squeak of a sofa as a body sought more comfortable seating.

Harry released his pent breath, a gasping sigh that deflated the tension in his chest. Yet in its place anxiety immediately set up residence. For if his uncle was not in the house, it would mean that he was on his way, would return at some point that night. To find his wayward charge once more perched in the comfort of his home. The thought of his uncle’s response, possibly incredulity but most definitely angry, sent a shudder dancing down Harry’s spine. He had to come back, though. He knew he had to. Dumbledore had told him to spend his holidays with his uncle, content in the knowledge that he would be ‘safe’. McGonagall had encouraged the same, recalling that his uncle had seemed ‘sad and regretful to see him go when he left for Hogwarts’ and that he would undoubtedly welcome his return, if only brief in nature.

Harry was under no illusions that his uncle had been regretful. Of course he was. But sad? It was almost laughable to consider; Stephen Defaux did not get ‘sad’. And yet, ignorant as the headmaster and his deputy had been had been, Harry found couldn’t disrespect his decision. Because they had told him to come back. To do otherwise would just be so…wrong. More so than the looming possibilities that awaited him in the summer.

Thrusting the thought to the side, Harry trundled his bulky trunk through the doorway. The experience left the impression of nothing so much as a jittery shopping trolley seeking to divert routes with the spasm of a single wheel. The loud, hollow thunk of leather on the walls made Harry wince, despite knowing he was alone in the house.

Well, almost alone. Lyssy murmured a faint yowl, as though she were party to his brooding thoughts and sought to comfort him with her presence. Harry spared a glance for the tiny cat following in his wake as he made his way towards his room, at the luminous eyes and tail curling low to the ground. Perhaps Draco was right. Perhaps she really was his familiar. She was certainly a much needed presence in his life, given she was the only friend he had for the majority of his teenage years.

The stray thought immediately brought a wave of sadness and longing into Harry’s chest, nearly overwhelming the residing anxiety. Yes, Lyssy had been with him for so long, but having a human friend was something that Harry had not appreciated until now. Had not even known he needed. Until they were no longer with him.

A lump settled in his throat at the thought of his friends. Of Draco. Of Neville, Ron and Hermione, of Blaise and even Pansy. But especially of Draco. They had parted on somewhat uneasy terms; Harry was unsure if Draco hated him for what he’d done, even if it was inflicted in attempted helpfulness, but regardless their relationship could hardly remain untouched. Even though Draco had been more withdrawn in the final week of term, Harry was sure it would be this that threw a spanner in the effortless workings of their friendship. He was startled by how much the thought saddened him. If only he had asked first. Why hadn’t he simply asked?!

Another sigh escaped his mouth as he dropped his trunk to the floor of the bedroom. His bedroom, he supposed, though it felt no more his own than it ever had. There were too many memories that hung in the stale air of the closed walls, memories that clashed in a putrid disaster with the vibrant images of his schoolmates. It drew a shudder across his shoulders, and Harry immediately wrapped the fond memories in a blanket of safety and isolation to hold them aloft from his contaminated surrounds. Like a treasured egg, he nestled the parcelled memories in the back of his mind, resolving not to touch them until he could build upon the meagre yet glowing supply.

Easing himself down onto the smooth covers of the quilt, Harry wiped his mind clear of thought, sinking into a state he had not revisited since that disastrous incident in Defence Against the Dark Arts what seemed so long ago. It was easier, to allow the cold, stark blankness to coat the surface of his mind than to allow his thoughts to manifest into possibilities, to drift towards memories of fondness. He didn’t want to contemplate his past, nor his future, which was most likely to reach an ominous climax in the near future. The projection of such fantasies often made the reality so much worse.

Idly, he ran his hand over Lyssy’s downy fur as the little cat leapt onto his lap and curled fox-like across his thighs. The sun outside his single window, seen in a hazy blur through the gossamer curtains, gradually slipped down beneath the jagged horizon of misshapen rooftops. Darkness smothered the house like a thick blanket but Harry made no move to switch on a light. He didn’t know how long he sat, immobile, his muscles gradually sinking into a dull ache of constant tension. The cold numbness he had settled himself into just barely withheld his dread.

Until the door opened.

In the silence of the house, the soft click of the door handle resounded like a gunshot. Harry flinched, closing his eyes as his ears unconsciously strained to hear every noise that followed. The scuff of shoes on the doormat, the jangle of keys as they were clipped onti the hook beside the door, a faint grumble of preoccupied mumbling.

The door to Harry’s room was only slightly ajar. Harry had fixed it just so as to provide as much of a shield as possible between himself and his uncle while still allowing ribbons of sound to slither into the room. Sounds that gradually made their way down the hallway.

The uneven step alerted Harry immediately to his uncle’s state. Drunk. Of course. And angry, if the continued cursing as he stumbled into the hallway walls was any indication. Harry barely dared to breathe, not a whisper escaping his lips as his widened eyes stared at the paper-thin gap between door and frame. Perhaps, if he was lucky, his uncle would simply pass the room and fall directly into sleep. Harry hadn’t alerted him to the timing of his return, only mentioned in a brief missive sent by Muggle post that he would be back for the Christmas break. He had received no reply.

His hopes died in a splintering mess when the white door swung inwards. Somehow, with that uncanny infallibility he possessed, Stephen knew he was there. The hinges uttered no squeak, yet the yawning opening seemed to sing a song of foreboding. The shadowed figure, illuminated only by the street lamps intermingled with moonlight streaming through the window, wedged itself in the doorway.

Had he always been so tall? So very large? His tie hung messily, half loosened with a wet stain running its length, his jacket slumped from his shoulders. The cuffs of his sleeves were crinkled in a careless fashion, white edges dirtied to a sweaty brown. The shadows of the night did nothing to favour his dishevelled appearance, rather enhancing the haggard smudges beneath his eyes, the crazed messiness of his mousy hair. His beard had grown out, the moustache pointed in a toothbrush-like bristle. It would have been almost comical had Harry not been so filled with dread.

An unexpected laugh rung from Stephen’s throat, humourless and hollow. ‘Ssssso. You’re back.’ It wasn’t a question, nor an accusation, despite the anger that smothered his uncle’s drunken slur. ‘Should we have a party, or are you a little too old for celebrations?’

Harry didn’t move, not even to breath, and didn’t dare blink for fear of taking his eyes off his uncle. He didn’t voice a reply, especially not to suggest the unlikelihood of such a celebration given they did not even recognise birthdays in the household. Any word would be a sign of weakness, an attempt at smoothing the situation into a less volatile state. Unlike Vernon, Stephen was smart. He would employ every weakness, every opportunity, to act upon his desires if given the slightest leeway. It was enough to keep Harry balancing on eggshells whenever in his presence. He didn’t break his line of sight, even when Lyssy leapt from his lap and darted for cover under the bed.

His uncle didn’t seem to care that he received no reply. He was likely too unbalanced by the alcohol swimming through his veins to even hear one had Harry uttered as much. Pushing himself into the room, he strode with an admirable attempt at steadiness towards the bed. His looming form was made even more daunting by Harry’s diminutive seat on the mattress.

‘Well? Nothing to say for yourself? I would expect as much, so much, as… much as given how quiet you’ve always been. But really, really Harry, not even a greeting for your beloved uncle?’

Even drunk and stumbling over his words Stephen managed to lace the term with sarcasm. The so-named ‘uncle’ had never lived up to the expectations the title insinuated. Harry remained silent, neck craned to stare almost directly upwards at the man. The faint whispers of breath that puffed from his open mouth tickled his eyelashes.

‘No? Then maybe you could just maybe esplain something to me. Ungrateful, it is. Up and leaving with barely a word from your blasted teachers. And goin’ to a foreign school? Some ‘Special School’? Have you no sense, boy? Have some crackpot old bastard teach you, teach you what you could just as easily as learnt at home? Huh?

‘It isn’t…’ The words died nearly as soon as they were spoken. Harry clamped his jaw shut, nearly cringing as the whispered, broken sentence settled in the air. What a fool! What had he done? He shouldn’t have spoken, he knew he shouldn’t have spoken, even in defence of his school, his relative haven. Just… He should have just kept his lips sealed. He had lost.

Stephen knew it too. A sloppy smile spread across his chin with all the elegance of a satisfied toad. Despite their differences in appearance, the smirk gave him an uncanny resemblance to Vernon Dursley. A smile that bespoke satisfaction that he had cracked the boy before him, that he knew he had the upper hand. It was what he had been waiting for.

With more coordination than his prior movements had suggested possible, Stephen latched a hand onto the neck of Harry’s jumper and jerked him to his feet. A swing of his arm, a half stumble and a bodily thump and Harry was pressed up against the wall of his room, bracing himself an attempt to retain his footing. Though his breath whooshed from between his lips in an audible gush, the motion was not entirely unexpected to Harry. His uncle had done so before, in the throughs of passion. What was unexpected was the ringing slap that smacked his head back against the wall a moment later.

Harry felt his mouth spring open, eyes widening in shock. He was not unfamiliar with physical violence; the Dursley’s had seen to such an acquaintance for the ten years he had been held in their grasp. But Stephen… Stephen had never intentionally struck him. Bruises, yes; the man was strong, his grip was firm - it was inevitable. But a slap?

The cruel smile widened. A maniacal glint flickered in Stephen’s darkly dilated eyes, visible even in the faint light. ‘Not expecting that, huh? Probably as surprised as I felt when you up and left. Do you… d’you feel it? Hmm? The sssuprise?’ The man cocked his head, raising his eyebrows in false interest. Not awaiting an answer, not expecting one, he continued. ‘Well, then I’ll just have to try again.’

Another open-palmed slap stung across Harry’s cheek. The smarting skin, the sting of inflammation, drew tears from his eyes, tears he furiously swallowed. It didn’t hurt, and he wasn’t upset. He simply… wasn’t.

Another slap, on the other cheek this time, and a dribble slipped through Harry’s eyelashes. Blinking frantically in an attempt to halt the threatening droplets, he peered through his glasses at the blurred image of his uncle. Please don’t let him have seen, don’t let him see me cry, even if it’s not real tears… It’s not!

A tongue darted between dry lips, moistening them to an even darker red. Stephen’s eyes were fixed on the trail of liquid running down to his chin. ‘Hurts, does it? Does it?’ Reaching forward, with a deliberate swiftness that caused Harry to flinch once more, the man licked the salty water from his face. It was all Harry could do to suppress a shiver from trembling through his body, to lock his limbs from retreat further into the solidity of the wall. Time apart had muffled the familiarity of the touch, heightening his disgust and loathing to new degrees. The conditioned numbness had crumbled over time. He was left bare, his skin nearly as sensitive and naïve as it had been that very first time. A flicker of painful memory caused him to clench his eyes closed briefly, locking his jaw.

When he opened them again, it was to another flinch at the darkness of his uncle’s eyes. Lust tinged the anger and the drunken glaze, a recognisable heat spreading across pale skin. With his hand still coiled in the neck of Harry’s jumper, the man dragged him from the wall, only to spin him around and crash him firmly back against the cold plaster, chest first. Harry’s breath gushed from his lungs once more, and he had barely managed to gasp another before it was lost again with a thrust of a broad hand to his head. Pressure built painfully, claw-like fingers piercing his scalp and forcing his face against the cool wall painfully, until a sickening crack broke through Stephen’s frantic puffing. Like a crushed insect, Harry’s glasses clattered to the floor, lenses shattered in pieces. A splintering twinge of pain settled on Harry’s cheeks as the sprinkles of glass grazed across his skin, cutting in stinging slices, before falling.

‘I…I told you, never, you never wear them in my house.’ It was the last coherent words Stephen said for quite some time.

Harry was thankful for the darkness, even thankful for the wall he was crushed against as it meant he didn’t have to look upon the frantic, jumbled motions of his uncle. It did nothing to quell the sensations, however, the achingly hard grasps of thick fingers, of one hand grasping his hipbones while the other stretched his arms painfully high and pinned achingly tight above his head. Soft licks beneath his ear were quickly exchanged for gnashing teeth that sunk into his neck, into a shoulder bared of clothing, upon his collarbone. Harry couldn’t fully suppress his pained whimpers, but settled for dropping his chin and muffling them against his chest as best he could.

Experience taught him not to resist, that it would only cause more pain and make it last longer. So he didn’t fight, not even when the painfully grasping fingers on his hips dropped to his jeans and, fumbling, tugged and yanked. The denim fell to gravity and crumpled to the floor. A shiver gripped him despite his intentions and a faint keen whimpered from his throat. Stephen pressed his own body, abruptly similarly bared from the waist down, firmly against his back. The throbbing heat, the man’s thick hardness pressed against the small of Harry’s back, nearly caused him to gag in disgust. Stephen’s frantic puffs were nearly verbal now, harsh gasps of drunken exertion and frantic desire.

The pressure on his back, crushing him to the wall, was the only thing that allowed Harry to keep his feet as, with sickening ease, the older man hitched one of his legs painfully and wedged it against the wall. That throbbing heat slid against his buttocks and, with fumbling, uncoordinated probes, the man thrust.

It was painful. More painful than Harry could remember. The lack of preparation, coupled with the time they had spent apart, only increased the pain. Harry couldn’t withhold a shuddering cry, his mind so caught in the tearing heat, the nauseating assault, that he couldn’t bother to smother the sound. He felt hot and cold in equal measures, clammy and shaking, the burning in his guts pounding in time with the thumping in his skull. A faint, satisfied laugh breathed into his ear, punctuated by another thrust that forced a second cry from his lips.

In short order, Stephen worked his way deep inside him, pressing closer, arms grasping ever tighter around Harry’s wrists and waist as he crushed himself further into him. Fully seated, the man paused briefly, gasping in lustful satisfaction. Bursts of laughter spurted from between his lips at the faint cries that wrangled from Harry’s lips. Harry panted in unison, each gasping breath throbbing an aching pain throughout his entire body. His body twitched in spasms. It was intolerable, it had to stop, it had to be stopped. But it was inescapable. It always had been. And Harry could only gasp in an attempt to quell the encroaching dizziness, the upwelling nausea, which clouded his mind.

When the impossible tightness had eased from intolerable to simply excruciatingly painful, the older man released another gasp, withdrawing slightly. A blissful moan was all the notice he gave before his fingers grasped bruising skin more tightly and, hips racing forwards, thrust once more, pressing Harry against the wall.

Harry barely moved. Pain and breathlessness fogged his mind with each scrape of his uncle’s arousal, each forceful thrust. The intense pressure of both Stephen and the wall made it nearly impossible to breathe. His cries died to breathy sobs. The dam of his tears crumpled easily, trickling dribbles freely from his chin. His body rocked with the motion of the thrusting man, bloody cheek pierced with shattered glass scraping against the wall and leaving streaks of glistening redness in a rusty mangled artwork upon the cream wallpaper. The grunts of his uncle were only barely audible over the rising thumping of his heart in his ears, pounding in his temple. He thanked the darkness briefly, once more, that he was unable to see his uncle’s face; the bile swirling in his mouth would have undoubtedly spilled through parted lips had he seen the lustful glee, the sadistic possessiveness, painting the man’s face.

He wasn’t sure how long it continued. Long enough for a patchwork of blood to mar the walls, and for his hips to have sunken into a paradoxically painful numbness. The feeling in his thighs had all but disappeared, only the grip of the man’s arm around his waist and the firm solidity of the wall keeping him upright. Even his sobs had died completely.

The swirling darkness in his head threatened to pull him under. For whatever reason, some survival instinct within him fought it, clutching at consciousness with feeble fingers. Finally, after an eternity of haphazard thrusting, Stephen froze in a seizure of pleasure and a searing wetness filled Harry. A sigh breathed hotly, wetly, into his ear. The familiar breath of laughter shuddered quickly on its heels.

‘Welcome home, Boy.’

* * *

It was a full-body ache. Everything throbbed with the strain of simply holding itself together. He didn’t care to look, but felt the bruises dotting his waist, his shoulders, his thighs, ringing his bicep in a macabre mimic of an armband. He knew what he would see; a patchwork of greens, purples, blues and yellows, stains on his skin in various stages of healing after three days of stress.

Had it only been three days?

Moving only his eyes, the boy observed the steady rise and fall of the sleeping man next to him. Harsh breaths, nearly snores, would have kept him awake if his aching body had not. Each breath fluttered the overgrown moustache like curtains in the wind. A faint pool of drool seeped carelessly into the plump pillow. Disturbingly, maddeningly, the man looked to be at utter peace.

It was harder. So much harder than it had been. For the boy, his Christmas holidays had consisted of much the same treatment since he had turned eleven. Save the additional burden of the heightened aggression, it was nothing he hadn’t seen before. Even his uncle’s violence was not unfamiliar; Vernon had done far worse. The scars that still decorated his body attested to that.

Yet harder it was. And as the boy lay, silent in exhaustion, his mind turned unconsciously towards contemplation. He knew why. It was the ultimate cruelty, really, to be shown kindness, something better, only to be cast back into the pitiful darkness like a discarded toy once more. It was only worse that the kindness of the elderly headmaster, the upright Deputy, even the classmates of which he dared to consider friends, and the resulting pain that followed was entirely unintentional. He couldn’t hate them. He couldn’t even force himself to view them with the cold indifference he unanimously directed towards everyone. He was forced to admit that, whether he cared to deny it or not, he craved the compassion of the wizards and witches like a starving man craved bread.

He would endure. If only to return to the school after Christmas, he would endure whatever his uncle could throw at him. The headmaster had instructed he return to his family over the break, so he had. He had to stay, because… because…

Why?

Why exactly did he have to stay?

There was… there was really no reason to… except that he was supposed to.

True, he was not yet seventeen, the age of maturity in the Wizarding world, yet he had money. Lots of money, too, if the mountains of coins he had glimpsed in the Gringotts vault were more than leprechaun gold. Money was always an issue; removing such an issue from the playing field afforded an enticing liberty…

Could he? Just maybe, could he try?

The very thought of leaving again, following the guttural grunts of command his uncle had voiced, sent a chilling shudder through the boy’s body, a shudder that trembled aching limbs with an echo of pain. The prospect was terrifying. Terrifying, but oh so tempting.

Sliding his eyes once more to the prone figure at his side, the boy eased himself up into seating. Or attempted to. The pain in his hips, the strain in his thighs, triggered a whimper that he bit back only just in time. Instead, his made a slow, awkward roll onto the side of the bed, trembling legs slipping to the carpeted floor. It was an incremental process, made slower by the fact that the boy kept his eyes trained firmly upon the sleeping man cocooned loosely in pale sheets.

With bated breath, the boy rose onto his feet. He nearly fell back onto the mattress with nerve-wracking speed; his muscles protested like sleeping dogs kicked into wakefulness. Grabbing onto the bedside table, he composed himself briefly, before taking an erratic step from the bed. Then another. And another.

Determination set in. Fear and urgency washed away the fatigue and aches that sagged his limbs into doughy uselessness. Casting many a glance towards the sleeping figure, he quickly dressed himself once more, slipping the t-shirt and trousers discarded across the floor soundlessly over bruised skin. It was cold outside. More than cold. Frost opaqued the windows and snow drifted lazily down onto black-and-white gardens like falling fairy dust. Brief contemplation had Harry reaching towards a pair of boots at the back of the cupboard. He would need a thick jacket too, a scarf, maybe gloves…

All of a sudden, the silence was broken by a crackling snore. Heart jumping into his throat, the boy spun around, eyes widening fearfully at the prospect of being noticed. In doing so, his hastily constructed plans of escape fell to pieces.

In his hands, the heavy boots dropped from nerveless fingers and clattered against one another to a thump on the floor. Rolled just ever so slightly to kick against the foot of the bed.

The sound wasn’t overly loud, yet in the silence of the room a cannon may as well have been fired. A startled snort, and the man on the bed sat up suddenly. Eyes blinked blearily as sleep cleared, drifting hazily until they focused upon the immobilised figure of the boy standing not five feet across the room.

‘Boy, what are you…?’

The boy was frozen. He couldn’t speak, couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe. The man on the bed terrified him – he finally admitted as much, after denying it for so long. It was terror. He was a gaoler, and as the sleepy figure slung his legs over the side of the bed, face contorting into confused anger, the boy watched the swinging door to his gaol cell rapidly closing.

A muted cheep was the only thing that managed to draw him from his mounting terror. Eyes magnetised towards the sound, he could just discern the shadowed shape of the cat staring fiercely at him from the doorway. As though awaiting notice, the cat met his eyes, dipped her chin, turned, and darted from the room.

The distraction shattered his immobility like a rock through the surface of pristine water. Escape. He had to escape. It was now, or…

Abandoning the boots, not even considering an overcoat, the boy leap from the room. Adrenaline jolted with magical speed through his system, driving the protestations of twinging knees and screaming thighs to the recesses of awareness. Grabbing the doorframe, he swung himself from the bedroom and into the deeper darkness of the windowless hallway.

‘Wha- Boy! What are you-?’

The boy didn’t hear him. Only his fearful pants, the resounding thump of his heartbeat, throbbed in his head, drowning out all other sounds. With mindless precision, faster than he thought possible, he grasped the handle of the front door, flicking deadbolt and chain from their passage-impeding resistance, and launched himself into the night.

‘BOY!’

It was cold. That was all. Cold, and with a slight breeze. He didn’t care. It could have been a snowstorm and he would have leapt into the night with the same determination. Bare feet pounding through frosted grass, across the burning coldness of tarmac, Harry disappeared into the night. Only the dark shadow, darting in unison at his heels, accompanied him in his flight.

* * *

Striding with purpose towards an unknown destination, Draco thrust his hands into the semi-warmth of his pockets. The falling snow was not overly thick in inner city Paris, but it was enough to chill one to the bone had they not been dressed appropriately. Draco cursed the Ministry’s under-age magic laws that prevented him from casting his own Warming Charm, but quickly shrugged off his disgruntlement. The scarf wrapped around his neck was pulled high enough to cover his chin, a hat pulled low over his forehead, leaving only his nose and cheeks bare to the night’s chill. It was hardly concerning. Besides, he had more important things to focus on. If only he knew exactly what they were.

It had been nearly half a week since the Christmas holidays had begun, two days since he and his parents had retreated to the relative safety of France. Even now, after days of becoming accustomed to the reality of his situation, it still made Draco pause to think how drastically his life had been turned around. And how unexpectedly.

Upon returning home, Draco had immediately informed Lucius and Narcissa of the loss of the twisted tattoo on his forearm. He could still hear the shocked silence ringing in his ears as the same mixture of horror and wonder filled both of their expressions. It seemed an eternity before Lucius finally spoke.

‘How is this possible?’

So Draco had related, with as much objectivity as he could, exactly how the hated mark, the symbolic and magical tie to the Dark Lord, fading like a bruise under a Healing Charm. The explanation naturally led to more, less easily conclusive topics: who was the boy that had both the skill and the audacity to remove the mark of the Dark Lord? Was the Dark Lord aware? Had he felt the effective loss, the detachment, of one of his servants? What would he do if he had? What did this mean for them? And how could they avoid discovery, assuming he was still unaware?

Answering as succinctly as possible, Draco had attempted to enforce the same calm and rationality he had developed on the long train return trip from Hogwarts earlier that day. The Dark Lord was obviously not aware of Draco’s blatant show of treachery, regardless of how unintentional it was. That Lucius and Narcissa were not aware of the Dark Mark’s disappearance was testimony to that. Draco highly suspected that he would not have had a family to return to if He had been aware of the matter at hand. Somehow, Harry Defaux had removed him from the Dark Lords blanketing control without his knowledge. It left each Malfoy in a state of wary euphoria and steadily growing foreboding.

It was by unanimous agreement that the Malfoys then decided to retreat into the relative safety of one of their foreign Manors. Though none were so large as their British abode, the respectable dwellings held the added appeal that they created substantial distance between themselves and the Dark Lord. Not that they could truly escape his gaze if he sought to peer down upon them, but by forcibly removing themselves from his immediate reach they hoped that it would in turn smother his attention.

The Malfoy Manors were impressive in that they appeared in nearly every European country. Though admittedly many had not seen a Malfoy in generations, it did not mean that they were not available for habitation, nor kept at a less than impeccable state by devoted house elves. As such, the three weeks break held the prospect of a holiday in any number of European destinations. They knew it would be only a temporary reprieve; it would be a lucky break if they were not called to the Dark Lord’s audience at least once to determine the progression of Draco’s ‘secret mission’.

His parents had, graciously, left the decision of destination to Draco. It had taken little thought on Draco’s part; given the circumstances, and the constant topic of conversation, the memory of Harry Defaux was always near at hand. He knew it was irrational, not to mention entirely uncharacteristic of the image he had attempted to present his entire life, but the knowledge of Harry’s own locale over the three week break perhaps influenced his own decision more that he cared to admit. The slight smile and raised eyebrow of his mother and father respectively suggested neither were unaware of the true motivation for visiting the country. Draco ignored their suggestive stares; he could brush them off as inconsequential. Besides, Paris held a certain appeal; Draco pointedly ignored the fact that he had only been to the country once, when he was eight, and had been thoroughly unimpressed, despite what tourism preached.

Just such disinterest had made itself known within a day of retreating to the French manor. Lucius and Narcissa had been adamant that he remained indoors during the day at least, leaving him only the nights to wander in search of some reprieve from his growing boredom. Which left him with as much of a solution to his unexpected problem as he had before the suggestion. Who wanted to wander the streets of Paris in such freezing weather?

How he managed to even dredge up the emotional strength to feel bored in his current circumstances was beyond him, yet somehow, with the absence of the Dark Mark, a weight had lifted from his shoulders as though a laden pack had fallen to the floor. Despite everything, he had actually been able to sleep through the night again. He hadn’t realised how hard it had become to breathe until the release had dawned the revelation upon him. The inconceivable desire to run, to dance even, made any form of sedate activity next to impossible. He practically wore tracks in the floorboards for all the pacing he undertook.

Coupled with his steadily growing jittery energy, just that evening he had developed an Itch. That was what he called it anyway, and the journeying the increased tempo of his pacing had urged upon him had alerted him to a similar Itch developing in both his mother and father. Like a burr caught on the inside of one’s sock, it was impossible to ignore and only grew more irritating with time. And the most annoying thing? He couldn’t have located the source even had he been permitted use of his wand over the winter break. Lucius and Narcissa had, discretely but with enough obviousness that Draco had noticed, attempted to discern the nature of the discomfort but were at a distinct loss and so had both been forced to settle back into fidgeting passivity.

The Itch wasn’t a natural result of a build up of energy. That much Draco had determined. It was Narcissa’s response more than anything else that indicated as much. Exceptionally sensitive to magical phenomena, the woman had been in a state of discomfort that in any other woman would have seen them tearing out their hair. In Narcissa, it manifested as a jiggling of her leg as she stared furiously at her open book. The second time Draco passed through her parlour, nearly an hour after the first, he noticed that she hadn’t turned a page. It was oddly comforting to realise that he wasn’t the only affected by the strange, buzzing Itch.

By nine o’clock, far from ‘winding down’ for the night, Draco’s pacing had begun to annoy even his parents, forgiving though they were. The Itch had grown to a demanding urge, an urge that positively begged action. It was with equal relief on Draco’s and his parent’s part when they agreed he could wander the streets to relieve the urge.

Hence Draco’s current status.

He didn’t know exactly what drew him onwards, but his feet insisted they had every confidence in their directional skills and heeded his queries with little regard. Even with the cold, Draco had to admit the faintly purposeful wandering was relieving. The Itch, while still strong, had died in its insistent pressure and merely lurked like a waiting shadow on the edges of his consciousness.

Chin down, staring fixedly at the ice-covered path crunching beneath his feet and mind devoid of any thoughts save the now-familiar twinging, it was with little wonder that when the Itch finally disappeared he stopped abruptly in his tracks. He frowned, raising his gaze, baffled at the sudden absence and dare he say a little disappointed that it had amounted to nothing. With a frustrated huff he registered his surroundings for the first time in what could have been hours, blinking through the feathery snowflakes that drifted lazily through the air.

He had wandered into a shadowed park, the orange glow of Muggle electricity hanging like miniature suns in the distance to illuminate the ice-slick road. Snow covered the ground, not overly thick but enough to blanket the frozen sprigs of winter grass and huddled evergreen bushes. Park benches dotted the sidewalk, empty as any sane person would be indoors in such weather, with the darkness of full-night now swallowing the last traces of holiday sunlight.

Draco puffed a faint cloud into the air and dug his hands beneath his armpits. Even with gloves it really was bloody freezing. Casting his gaze around the empty park, running his eyes over a distant lake that breathed wrath-like mist into the air about it’s flat surface, that odd disappointment arose once more. He turned to leave…

…And nearly crushed the darting shadow beneath his heel. A stumbling dance and a few staggered steps later and he regained his balance, gasping in startled exertion. He glared down at the dark little creature. A glare that quickly faded into bafflement, then astonishment as recognition dawned.

Lyssy uttered a faint meow, face scrunching and frosted whiskers sticking haphazardly from her cheeks. Enormous green eyes gazed up at him in desperation, that humanness and expressiveness evident only in familiars swirling in their luminescent depths.

Catching his breath, Draco dropped down to his knees before the little cat, barely registering the cold dampness that immediately seeped through the knee of his trousers. Reaching out a hand, he stroked a gloved finger between the cat’s ears, drawing on the familiarity between them to urge her closer.

What is Lyssy doing here? Surely… not without Harry…

As though she heard his thoughts, the little cat mewed another pathetic cry, butting her head into his palm before turning and darting off. Draco rose rapidly to his feet, peering into the gloom that nearly masked her passage and only barely making out the smudge of her shadow when she paused in her flight. Right beside a figure curled in a barely visible huddle on the curb of the footpath.

The world froze momentarily, as though locked in the icy confines of the snow. Not even his breath escaped, though the chill of the biting night still seeped between his parted lips. It couldn’t be… Launching himself into the little cat’s wake, Draco nearly skidded with the speed of his movement. Boots sliding upon the frozen pavement, he dropped instantly to the ground before the boy and the cat. His only recently regained breath caught again in his throat.

Harry was nearly frozen, and it was no wonder given that barely a thin shirt and worn jeans barred him from the merciless chill of the night. The arms locked around his knees had taken on a sickly paleness, and what Draco could see of his face beneath a tangled fringe was equally wan, eyes closed and lashes glittering with frost. Chapped lips had faded to a worrying purple and the toes poking from the hem of his jeans were curled and blue against the paleness of the sidewalk.

Once more regaining his breath, Draco reached out frantically and clasped the smaller boy by the shoulders. What was Harry doing?! Did he have a death wish?

‘H-Harry? Harry! What are…? Harry, open your eyes! You’re okay? Please be… you’re okay, right?’

Whether it was contact of gloved hands or the admittedly desperate pleas, Harry dragged himself from his hypothermic drowsiness. Shifting in his seat, arms tightening briefly around himself, his eyelids fluttered in a struggle to open. A dangerous blurriness met Draco’s gaze, for the first time seen directly without the filter of his glasses. His eyes were unexpectedly large, his uncanny resemblance to Lyssy made more apparent. Draco nearly sobbed, his heart attempting to clamber up his throat with rising anxiety. Unlatching his hands from Harry’s arms, he hastened to unbutton his thick overcoat, to offer anything he could to the boy who had done so much for him, come to mean so much to him.

‘Draco…’

The husky voice, barely a croak, caught Draco’s attention. Had he not been alone with the other boy, he would have never believed that such a word, laced with so much sadness, despair and longing, could have come from the huddled form before him. Harry rarely expressed overt emotion, barely if ever on his face and nearly as rarely in his voice. It was unnerving.

Raising his gaze to meet that of the frozen boy before him, Draco slowed in his disrobing. If the single word was enough to stop him in his tracks, Harry’s face positively choked his breath in his throat. For the first time, the first time ever, he watched as a flood of emotions wreaked a battle across the small boy’s petite features. His brows drew up into a trembling line, mouth parted and bottom lip shuddering. And his eyes, those eyes that never held anything but blank indifference, welled with tears and sadness and despair and need. Most of all, a desperate need.

Draco barely wrapped his arms around Harry before full-body sobs wracked through his shivering frame. In an explosion of pent-up grief, a wail was cried into his chest. Fingers rose seemingly of their own accord and latched onto Draco’s thick woollen jumper. Without thought, he wrapped his own arms around his friend – yes, without doubt, he was definitely a friend – and pulled him into the warmth and comfort of his embrace. And Harry, the boy who flinched at even a touch on the shoulder, melted with his sobs into the proffered warmth.

Draco wasn’t sure how long they huddled together on the sidewalk; he was only faintly aware of the dampness of his knees becoming more pronounced, of the icy wind slipping frozen fingers into the loosened folds of his overcoat. It was only when the shuddering sobs of the boy in his arms faded to silence that he moved.

Dropping his gaze down to Harry, pressed firmly into his arms, his eyes widened in fear. His friend had slipped into sleep - or unconsciousness, it was difficult to determine which – and now trembled with such intensity that Draco was surprised he hadn’t noticed with the tightness of their embrace. Concern pushed to the forefront as he noted once more the other boy’s pallor, the now deeper purple of his lips.

Slipping a hand from his glove, Draco pressed curled fingers to Harry’s cheek and nearly hissed. Cold. Too cold. It was a wonder he wasn’t frozen solid.

Again the thought fluttered briefly though his mind – what was Harry doing in the middle of a park in central Paris, dressed for summer in the dead of winter of all things? – but urgency thrust the thought aside for later contemplation. Right now, action took priority.

Finally managing to slip his overcoat from his shoulders, Draco draped the thick folds around Harry’s shoulders. The motion was made infinitely more awkward by the worrying limpness of his friend. Satisfied that the material that effectively swam upon the smaller boy’s frame would at least protect him from the bitter edge of the night, he fastened his arms around Harry’s shoulders and under his knees and eased himself, wavering, to his feet.

It was perhaps the only time he thought of Harry’s diminutive size as being an advantage; had he been any larger, Draco doubted he would have been capable of lifting a youth his own age, let alone carry him any distance. Readjusting his fingers, setting his shoulders, Draco took a ragged breath before setting off at a trot through the darkness of the empty park. The shadow of the little cat, yowling faintly in distress, followed close on his heels.

* * *

‘Mother!’ Panting, Draco’s throat constricted painfully. ‘Father!’

The cold air drew into his mouth in sharp breaths, released as smoke like a steam engine. Sweat streamed from his forehead, slickening the hair that escaped his hat and froze in the deepening chill of the night. Shrugging his shoulders, Draco hitched the limp boy in his arms higher once more. What had seemed a slight burden initially now weighted like a ton of bricks. All four limbs of Draco’s limbs ached from exertion. He hadn’t realised just how far he had wandered into the night

With another swing of his leg, he booted the door once more. ‘Mother!’ For the first time, Draco cursed the sheer size of the manor. Likely in their respective sitting rooms, Narcissa and Lucius could have been no further from the front door. Grunting with a breathless mumbled of frustration, he edged further into the protective shadow of the doorway. The wind was picking up; he had to get inside, but his reluctance to release Harry from his hold, even briefly to open to door, provided a barrier to the warmth of the indoors.

Finally, with a spark of inspiration, he recalled the name of one of the house-elves assigned to the French establishment. ‘Mancy!’

A crack disrupted the low whistling of the wind, preceding the appearance of the house-elf by a split second. Dressed in a rather elaborate patchwork of doilies, the gangly creature barely seemed to register the cold. Her eyes widened as she gazed up at Draco and the figure he cradled.

‘Master Draco! What is you doing out in this freezing cold?!’

‘No time, dammit, just open the door!’

Nodding her head vigorously, ears trembling, the elf swung from her fixated immobility and stretched on tip-toes to thrust the door open. Striding past her, nearly bowling the creature over in his haste, Draco sunk into the warm embrace of the manor.

‘Mother! Father! Where are you?’ Inside, his voice echoed, carrying throughout the house. Glancing once more to Mancy, he didn’t even pause to scold the elf for fumbling lazily with the door. ‘Mancy, send my parents to the downstairs parlour. Immediately. I have to speak with them at once.’

Barely sparing the time to nod her compliance, another crack bespoke the elf’s departure. Following his own directions, Draco strode purposefully through towards the parlour, boots leaving a trail of wet footprints in his wake.

The downstairs parlour was one of the cosiest in a house of admittedly un-cosy rooms. A fire crackled constantly in a marble hearth even in summer, illuminating dark leather couches with an orange glow and bathing the polished floors and thick rug in a ruddy light. Edging around the glass coffee table artfully boasting an assortment of gnarled bonsai, he eased Harry onto the delicate two-seater chair with rapidly weakening arms.

The dark-haired boy still trembled, despite the warmth Draco had practically radiated upon him. His eyes were frozen closed, ice coating his lashes and interweaving them into solidity. The purple of his lips gave him a deathly appearance – it was nerve-wracking to behold.

Shedding his gloves, Draco knelt beside the couch, squeezing both of Harry’s small hands in his own. He huffed breaths into their iciness, breathing life back into the deadened skin. Please be alright, please be alright…

‘Draco, what are you doing? What is this?’

The demand broke the nervous silence with surprise more than anger. Turning, Draco met his father’s eyes as the tall man strode through the doorway, followed a moment later by a silent Narcissa. Both sets of eyes widened minutely when the registered the scene before him.

Before his parent’s could speak, Draco eased himself to his feet. He retained his grasp on Harry’s fingers, firmly but not tightly. For some reason he couldn’t make himself let go. ‘Father, mother, this is Harry Defaux.’

That simple statement seemed to allay any anger that gripped either adult, affronted as they were at the unexpected intrusion of the stranger. Narcissa started forwards in concern, while Lucius raised a perfect eyebrow questioningly.

‘You happened upon your friend – the boy who is responsible for removing your mark – in the middle of Paris. In the middle of winter. In the middle of the night.’

Draco nearly sighed his exasperation at the redundancy of his father’s statement. Instead, he composed himself appropriately, sinking back down on his haunches as Narcissa dropped onto the couch beside the unconscious boy. ‘I somehow…stumbled across him. I think it might have had something to do with that, um, magical itch from this evening.’

Lucius’s brow furrowed, but Narcissa only nodded her head faintly in agreement. Running her eyes over Harry, she raised a worried hand to her chin. ‘Yes, I can sense the same signature coming from him. It is faint, though. This is not good.’

Leaning forward, Narcissa pulled Harry upwards slightly and began to shrug Draco’s coat from his shoulders. ‘Draco, help me undress him.’

‘What? Why?’

‘He’s frozen and wet. It will only keep him cold. We need to remove the source of distress before I move on to remedying his state if we don’t want him to get worse.’ All practical efficiency, Draco’s mother set her jaw determinedly. Always level-headed in a stressful situation, she immediately took control.

Draco jumped to her assistance. His own urgency, the worry that roiled like a living thing in his gut, overrode any modesty he may have felt about disrobing his unconscious friend. In swift order, mother and son stripped Harry of shirt and jeans nearly frozen solid to his skin while Lucius presided over them with a thoughtful frown. The garments slapped heavily onto the wooden floor but neither heard it. All three froze in their movements, eyes fastening upon the revealed skin.

It was smattered with dark smudges, and not the darkness that still captured his fingers in a worrying purple. Bruises spread in a sick artwork of blues, purples, greens and yellows over deathly pale skin, more than could be counted around Harry’s jutting hipbones, bony shoulders and skinny arms. Even a trail of knut-sized spots dotted down his thighs, a ring around his ankle. It was a horrifying sight and Draco felt his throat tightening painfully.

‘What is -?’

‘No time, Draco. Later. He’s hypothermic; if we don’t do something now, the frostbite will set in and he’ll be at risk of losing fingers.’ Narcissa, breaking from her focus, set about with her practicality once more. ‘Mancy!’

The house-elf appeared in a second, as though she had been awaiting the call. ‘Mistress, what can I be getting-?’

‘Warm towels, dry-heated, but not hot. Blankets, lots of them. And a robe, small, but as warm as we have.’ Narcissa listed off her requests as she pulled her wand from the pocket of her robe, eyes scanning Harry as though making a mental assessment of his condition. ‘And quickly.’

‘Yes, Mistress.’ Another crack and she disappeared.

Narcissa was almost frighteningly efficient in her administrations. Within moments of Mancy’s return, she had ordered Draco to swaddled Harry in the folds of softness. As soon as he was finished, she shooed him from her path in a gesture reminiscent of Madam Pomfrey and set about mumbling incantations beneath her breath.

Moving to his father’s side, Draco observed the conduct with a mixture of fascination and ever-present worry. Harry hadn’t moved since he had been placed upon the couch, but Draco had utter confidence in the capabilities of his mother. She was something of a healing master, after all. Not physical healing, per se, but healing nonetheless. He didn’t miss from the corner of his eye the faint glimmer of fondness, of satisfaction, that Lucius failed to conceal as he watched with similar attentiveness as his wife paced before the couch, raining spiralling patterns of magic onto Harry’s unconscious form. Draco though they had at least some effect; Harry, or the few patches of skin still left bare, seemed slightly less blue.

When the last of the sparks finally settled, Narcissa waved her wand once more. Harry rose slowly and steadily from the couch, hovering beside the witch as she placed a hand upon his shoulder. It was an odd sight, Harry’s head the only part of his body visible and that only barely. The cocoon of blankets nearly drowned him completely.

Narcissa slipped up to his side, resting a hand on the soft bundle of blankets. ‘Alight. Mancy, I want the bed in the first guest room warmed and a fire lit. Draw the curtains too; we don’t need any of the chill from outdoors coming in.’ Mancy nodded, not even bothering to reply this time, and disappeared. Turning towards father and son, Narcissa offered a tight smile. ‘I’ve worked about as much as I can do physically. His body should be perfectly fine. It is the magical strain that I’m worried about. His core is very faint.’

Worry creased her forehead. Draco would have been surprised at the concern for a stranger if he hadn’t known his mother better. Few people knew how caring the woman truly was. She hid it well.

Shifting his gaze towards his floating friend, Draco stepped forward and similarly placed a hand on his cocoon. ‘Can you help him?’

Narcissa shrugged one shoulder. ‘We shall see. I think rest would be best for the moment. If he remains stable or improves, then my part is done. If he doesn’t…’ She trailed off once more.

‘And the bruises?’

A sigh. ‘We shall deal with one thing at a time. I have done my best with healing the worst of them, but I do not want to put his body under too much magical strain in the state he is in. We will wait until he awakens.’

Draco nodded his acceptance. That Harry was stable was truly his only concern for the moment. As his mother had said, the rest could wait. Lucius, however, was not having it.

‘And what of his sudden appearance? A teenage boy wandering the streets in the middle of the night wearing nothing but a thin shirt and jeans? Narcissa, you can’t tell me you don’t-’

‘We shall discuss it when he wakes.’ Quietly but firmly, Narcissa exerted her dominance. Lucius clamped his lips together, pausing as though contemplating continuing, before bowing his head. In public, Lucius held the reins, but in the privacy of their home Narcissa reigned with the iron first of a dictator, though not nearly so obnoxiously.

Nodding her satisfaction, Narcissa strode with her eternal grace from the room. The cocoon of blankets floated lazily in her wake. Draco, biting his lip in barely restrained worry, followed behind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Thank you once again to all of my wonderful readers. And to my commenters; you make my day! Especially those of you who have commented a couple of times.  
> Special thanks to mangafan, NightFaeChild9, Julsibot, darkmoonlady and kjpotter for your return comments. I love seeing names I recognise. Hope to see more of you!


	11. Visions of the Past

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: this chapter (again) contains scenes of rape and violence. If you think you may find this triggering to read, please, please don't.  
> Seriously, though, I'm sorry, Harry. I don't mean to be so cruel. It somehow just happened.
> 
> A/N: another warning, this chapter contains something of a MASSIVE plot divergence. Or, well, I see it as massive, as it's kind of integral to the canonical HP story line. Don't shoot me for straying; this is an AU.

His fingers weren’t blue anymore; the threat of frostbite had been wiped from the pale skin. Even so, Draco couldn’t help but shiver at how cold his friends hands were.

Sighing, he squeezed the limp digits between his own fingers, gaze falling back on the sleeping face. Harry had always been expressionless, and yet somehow the blankness of his petite features when lax in sleep were a whole new level of disturbing. Perhaps it had something to do with the burst of overwhelming emotion that Draco had witnessed two days before. Or perhaps it was because of what he now knew, what he’d seen.

Narcissa sat with him more often than not and while silence and contemplation most frequently gripped the room, mother and son were not averse to conversation. Such as that which had transpired that morning.

_‘Mother, we have to talk about it.’_

_Narcissa sighed. Sadness flooded her features, breaking through her cool mask of composure. Few realised the depth of her caring instinct, but Draco, who had always been a recipient, was not surprised at the show of concern._

_‘Draco, you know as well as I what this means.’_

_‘No, I don’t.’_

_‘You do. You simply refuse to accept it because you fear for what it means for your friend.’_

_Draco shook his head, in denial of both his mother’s words and what he knew to be true. ‘I would have seen something before. I would have known-’_

_‘Did you honestly not know? Not suspect something?’ Narcissa paused, awaiting a reply, but Draco avoided her gaze, staring at the pale duvet in fierce concentration. ‘It is nothing to be ashamed of, my love. Many friends, kin and colleagues of victims of abuse are unaware-’_

_‘I should have known.’_

_Sympathy rolling in waves from his mother, Draco tucked his chin further from Narcissa’s softening gaze. A solemn smile graced her lips. ‘You could not have know-’_

_‘It’s obvious. It should have been obvious. No one acts like Harry does for no reason.’_

_Draco’s mother froze in the silence that ensued. Self-disgust, a flavour hitherto foreign on Draco’s tongue, twisted his mouth in a scowl. Sadness warred with anger, colouring his vision a mixture of red-grey as they fastened upon his friend’s unconscious face. Not angry at Harry, though. Never that. He stroked absently at the sheets, at the chilled skin, anything to simply soothe, but whether he sought to ease the discomfort of himself or Harry he was unsure._

_‘What should have been obvious, Draco?’ Narcissa seemed oddly captivated by the movements of his hands. That in itself was not surprising. Draco wasn’t one for displays of affection, but for some reason, when it came to Harry, he couldn’t seem to help himself._

_Opening his mouth to speak, Draco struggled for a moment to push the words around the lump in his throat. ‘He…Harry doesn’t like to be touched. Not just Pansy’s hugging – no one really likes that – but even simple things, like a pat on the shoulder. He…towards the end of term he seemed to be getting better with it, but…_

_‘He’s always quiet. At the beginning of term, he never spoke unless he has a question in class, or unless he’s been directly spoken to, even though he’s smart and I know he has things to say. And his face – you know for the first month I didn’t think he actually knew how to smile? And not only that, but frowning, crying, anything. He doesn’t even look confused, not even when he obviously doesn’t understand something. The first time I really saw anything distinctly emotive was when…’_

_Trailing off, the memory of that day in Defence Against the Dark Arts, so long ago it seemed, flashed through his mind. Draco closed his eyes, clenching his jaw in frustration as the pieces clicked abruptly into place. He had put off understanding because it was what Harry so obviously wanted, so desperately tried to maintain. To keep a secret. Now he wished he had pushed for an explanation. He would have…he could have…_

_‘Mother, if it’s his family, I won’t let him go back to them.’ Opening his eyes, he stared determinedly at his mother. Narcissa raised an eyebrow in mild surprise, though slowly nodded her head in acceptance. Somehow, Draco knew it wasn’t so much an allowance of his desires but rather an acknowledgement of what she had already decided for herself._

The memory drew a duel ache of sorrow and blossom of appreciation from Draco’s chest. Narcissa had always been accommodating of Draco’s whims – at least within the bounds of propriety and safety – and Draco couldn’t fathom how for even a moment he may have contemplated that she wouldn’t have allowed him his way in this instance. Concerning another child no less. In hindsight, he was surprised that he had been the once to voice his standing first.

The door clicked and Draco raised his eyes from his friends face. His father and mother passed through the door, Narcissa oddly laden with a covered tray rather than leading a house elf. Draco disregarded the anomaly and quirked an eyebrow questioningly at them both. Lucius had been oddly pensive since Harry’s arrival, and Draco hadn’t seen much of him. His sudden appearance in the room was unexpected to say the least; Lucius never acted randomly.

Moving to rise from his seat, he was waved into stillness at his father’s behest. ‘No need for formality, Draco.’ With that, the elder Malfoy flourished his wand before easing himself into one of the two conjured chair, wooden and rigid. Narcissa took her own seat beside him. She placed the tray on the bedside, still covered, but made no motion towards it further.

‘Draco, there are some things we wish to discuss with you.’ It wasn’t a question, simply an informative statement. Lucius, apparently taking the lead today, leant forward slightly in his seat with a fortifying inhalation. ‘What exactly do you know of Harry Defaux?’

Frowning, Draco flickered his gaze between his parents. There was no anger to be seen, even that which they concealed so famously well, but rather an unexpected intensity. It was enough to urge a fidget in his own seat. ‘What do you mean?’

Lucius sat back slowly, leaning into his chair with a creak. An uncharacteristic sigh parted his lips. ‘What do you know of him? Where he comes from, why he started school at the age tha the did? Who his family is?’ That odd intensity captured Draco like an eagle with a hare in its sights as his father pinned him once more with his focus. ‘Who is he?’

‘I… Harry was apparently a late bloomer. He didn’t display any magic until last summer, after which Headmaster Dumbledore approached him to enter our school.’ An automaton response overtook Draco, his tongue relaying facts faster than his brain could register. ‘At least, that’s how the story goes. He lives in Paris, with his uncle…Steven? Other than that, I don’t really know much.’

His own words rung hollowly in his ears, drawing him into a melancholy. It’s true. I really don’t know much about you at all, Harry. Draco felt his gaze begin to slide once more to his motionless friend before Lucius captured his attention once more.

‘That is all?’

A hesitant nod was all Draco could provide. As his father turned his own gaze to Harry, Draco felt himself frown in confusion. ‘Why? Father, what do you know?’

It was Narcissa who took up the thread of conversation. Evidently, Lucius had slipped into his mulish pensiveness once more. ‘It is not so much what we know but what we suspect.’ Following her husband’s gaze, her eyes dimmed with sadness. ‘As I was healing the injuries to his body, I found more than a few faded scars. Given what we know, what we suspect, of his personal past, that in itself is not unexpected. Save that one scar is infamous in itself.

‘Upon Harry’s back, down the length of his spine, there is a scar. It is no ordinary scar, and given my familiarity with magical fingerprints I am able to deduce the stain of a magical attack.’ Narcissa paused, leaving the comment in the air momentarily. Draco barely breathed in fearful anticipation. ‘Draco, have you ever heard of Harry Potter?’

The question baffled Draco for a moment. Nodding hesitantly, he felt himself speared once more by Lucius’ swinging gaze. ‘Potter is Harry’s last name. He just told me that he hasn’t used it in years, since he had adopted his uncle’s surname when he moved in with him.’ A sickly roil churned his gut at the memory; asked him but… Draco never remembered him saying he preferred such a term of address.

The elder Malfoy clicked his tongue in exasperation, a sound Draco was sure would never have passed his lips had they been in the company of others. ‘You didn’t think to mention as much?’

‘Why would I? What is the relevance?’

Another click of Lucius’ tongue was followed by a growl that seemed oddly nervous. ‘Harry Potter is one half of what you could call the package and pair of the ‘Boys-Who-Lived.’

Draco was momentarily stunned. Harry was-? Wait, wasn’t Neville…? ‘What? What do you -?’

Sighing in a deflated expiration, Lucius sunk back into his seat. ‘I’ll start from the beginning, or else it will make no sense.’ He paused for a moment, collecting his thoughts as his eyes settled on Harry’s prone form. ‘Fifteen years ago, as you well know, the Dark Lord sought the destruction of a young boy by the name of Neville Longbottom. It was his belief, through happening upon a prophecy, that a boy born in the end on July would be his equal and spell his demise. A boy born of those who had thrice defied him. An enemy, if you would.’

‘What many people have now forgotten is that there was not one but two boys who met this criteria. The Dark Lord had a decision to make; one of them would spell his doom, while the other… It was a decision that could potentially lead to his destruction.

‘The only true difference in circumstance between the two boys is their heritage. One possessed a pure bloodline, dating nearly as far back as the Malfoy lineage itself. The other was similarly ancestrally wealthy; however, the father of the boy took it upon himself to marry a Muggleborn. Hence, their child was a half-blood. Pureblood or half-blood? Tell me, Draco: which do you think the Dark Lord would have chosen?’

Lucius seemed to be genuinely curious as to Draco’s response. For himself, Draco was a little shell-shocked to have realised that Harry came from any sort of upstanding heritage. Despite what most thought of him, he didn’t despise Muggleborns quite to the extent as was generally thought. Or at least, not anymore. Such negativity had definitely taken a turn for the less negative in the past six months. Why such a change had overcome him he didn’t know, but as such he remarkably scant compunction in befriending the slight ‘Muggleborn’ boy. Besides, he was interesting. Very interesting, and that somehow made up for the fact. Yet even with this acceptance, the realisation rocked him even further on the unstable foundations of what he thought he knew of who Harry was.

Dragging his attention back from his contemplation, Draco instead considered his father’s question. The Dark Lord… Few outside of the innermost circle of Death Eaters knew anything of substance about the ominous figure. It was only the sincere adoration of Bellatrix Lestrange that afforded the Malfoys their seat on his higher table. Such a connection was what provided the trickle of knowledge on the Dark Lord that they were afforded. One point, laced with the fury that his aunt had barely been able to conceal, bubbled to the surface of Draco’s thoughts.

‘The Dark Lord. He was a half-blood, wasn’t he?’ The faint nod, the glimmer of satisfaction in his father’s eyes indicated Draco was on the right track. ‘Given his… egocentricity,’ Draco swallowed around the blasphemous words, ‘he would have chased the half-blood, wouldn’t he? The one most like him? Because… because only someone like himself could really challenge him.’ It made sense in Draco’s mind. In the eyes of the Dark Wizarding society, nothing could be more terrifying than to meet one’s equal.

Lucius nodded, a small smile of satisfaction tipping the corners of his lips. 'Very astute of you, Draco. Indeed, at the time, it was speculated that the Dark Lord would seek the one who was most like himself; half-blood. The premise is simple: people ultimately fear themselves more than anything else. To come upon their equal would naturally be the most terrifying prospect.

However. The Dark Lord is… unique, not only in who he is and what he has done, but for his perceptions. It is my belief,' at this, the blonde man swallowed quietly himself, a notable motion of unease, 'that the Dark Lord is as powerful as he is for the confidence he places in himself. One does not become a feared and respected Lord by offering trust too freely. I believe he knows this; more, even, that he has developed an inability to place trust in anyone. But trust is like a physical essence; if it is not channeled externally, then it is internalised and instead manifests itself in complete confidence in oneself.'

Staring at his son firmly in the eye, affixing him firmly in his gaze. Draco felt himself shudder slightly. Any conversation that revolved around the Dark Lord sent shivers crawling like rogue spiders beneath the skin, yet his fathers words were somehow even more disconcerting. Lucius spoke as if the villain himself were almost...human. The thought was horrifying.

Ensuring he held his son's rapt attention, Lucius continued. 'The Dark Lord trusts no one, and so he ultimately can only trust himself. He has utter confidence in his own abilities, his own exaltedness. He does not fear himself, and so facing his equal would undoubtedly prove less fearsome to him than it would to another of greater… sanity.

'In addition to this, he holds purity high above any other quality. The hypocrisy of his very perception is one that I doubt will ever be understood. No one would dare try.' Lucius closed his eyes briefly, as though grounding himself against the fear such a possibility induced. 'Yet even so, despite his own delusions of grandeur and utter glorification of self, purebloodedness is deemed more worthy. More powerful, even. Why would the man not be wary that he deems more powerful, to see it as the threat?'

Draco was frozen in his attentiveness, barely breathing for fear it would disrupt his father's words. It was strange, to hear Luicus speak of purebloods and half-bloods with such objectivity. More than that, even in the comfort of their home, Lucius rarely voiced his speculations. Or relayed incriminating facts with such confidence - for it was apparent that Draco’s father wholeheartedly believed his own words. 'So,' it was barely a whisper, and Draco struggled to push the words from his lips, yet his fathers extended silence bespoke a welcoming of the interrupted. 'He chose...Longbottom? Neville Longbottom is a pureblood. He tried to kill him to erase the possibility of his future demise?'

Lucius inclined his head. 'And so the legend, the Boy-Who-Lived, was born. On the thirty-first of October, fifteen years ago, the Dark Lord attempted to destroy Neville Longbottom. He failed, though killed Alice Longbottom in the attempt. The curse backfired, vanquishing the Dark Lord temporarily and leaving on the curse scar marking Neville's forehead in it's place.'

'But then...Harry's curse scar. If the Dark Lord went after Neville, why...?'

Lucius released a sigh, the second he had uttered that afternoon. It was disconcerting to witness the show of weariness, a sight so un-Malfoy. 'The Dark Lord is confident in himself, and likely similarly confident in his deductive abilities. Yet even he could not overlook the inkling of a chance that the other boy, that which he did not choose, would rise against him and pose a threat.'

A sharp intake of breath hissed through Draco's teeth as comprehension dawned. 'He tried to kill Harry anyway?'

A nod of affirmation from his father confirmed Draco’s suspicions, though it hadn't truly been a question. 'Not himself, no. But on the same night he sent one of his subordinates to end the boy.’ Lucius paused, and something like satisfaction curled the corners of his lips. ‘They did not succeed, though, unlike the Dark Lord, the attacker was not nearly cast into the abyss wit the effect of a rebounding curse. Simply, her… toying with the boy, with the boy’s mother, his father, was cut short.’

Draco shifted uncomfortably, clamping his lips together as a flood of bile rose in his gorge. His father’s lip, curling in distaste, expressed a similar disgust at the ‘toying’. ‘Following this, it is likely only because of his complete immersion in the Muggle world that Harry was spared pursuit. After the attack, and the injuries incurred by the assassin and her subsequent imprisonment by those who arrived on the scene in time to save the boy, any further attempts very cut short. Harry was placed into protective care that would have only potentially destroyed any who approached with malicious intent. And though the chance arose to finish her assignment, evidently the assassin felt the likelihood of the boy remaining a threat scant enough not to risk further pursuit. And why would she? The boy was raised by Muggles, without magic.

'Ironically, such a turn of events more than anything justifies the Dark Lords lack of trust in his subordinates.’ Lucius’ gaze became piercing as he met Draco’s eyes. ‘He does not trust, but even he cannot be in two places at once. At least, not realistically. He had to use a tool in his place, for taking action against one boy would inevitably lead to the heightened protectiveness of the other. The Dark Lord had to utilise the tools he had on hand, and there is one tool he has honed so finely that they would gladly destroy the world for her master. Do you know of whom I speak?'

Clenching his eyes shut, Draco felt his jaw squeak with the strength he clenched his teeth together. Rage boiled within him at the very prospect. For he knew. He knew exactly whom his father spoke of. 'Aunt Bellatrix.'

Lucius only nodded shortly in reply. Opening his eyes, Draco saw his lips were press so thinly they were barely a white line across his chin.

'Indeed. The embodiment of insanity herself, yet a completely different strain to that of the Dark Lord. Unwavering and destructive loyalty can be a terrifying thing.' It was Narcissa's quiet voice that cut though the tense hush of the room. Draco shifted his attention towards his mother in shock. There was little love lost between sisters; how could there be, when there was so much fear? Yet the ice-cold venom in Narcissa's voice was more frightening than the chilling rage Lucius was prone to expressing. Narcissa stared straight back at him. 'When my sister told me of what she had done, years later and only after her escape from Azkaban… To attack a child after brutally destroying their family…’ Narcissa’s jaw tightened into a visible knot. ‘Bellatrix crossed an unforgivable bridge and never looked back. I lost my sister that night, years before I even realized it, yet without the release of death as a heartless demon is all that was left in her place. The only reason I have not professed the depth of my disgust to her and isolated myself from her completely is the memories of our past. Otherwise...' She trailed off ominously.

Draco wasn’t the only one shaken by his mother’s ice-cold words. Even Lucius seemed on the verge of trembling. If a tone could drip hatred and curse death, than Bellatrix would have fallen in a heartbeat. Draco struggled to maintain his composure, shifting his eyes to Harry. The chill of his mother’s admission seemed to have quenched his own rage. Search as he did, he couldn't seem to find a flickering trace of it. The only emotion that simmered below the surface was a deep, dark upwelling of sadness. His friend had been hurt, too many times for one so young, for anyone, and he had struggled through it entirely alone. It made him mentally cuff himself for not realising sooner.

Resolutely pumping himself full of determination - he would help Harry if he had to smother the other boy kicking and screaming beneath his aid, as unlikely as that would be - he fixed Narcissa with a stare. The hardness had not left her eyes, but it was not directed at him, instead brushing over him like a feathery wind. 'Mother, I want to help him. Harry is my...friend. And if that means protecting him from Death Eaters, his own family, or both, I am willing to do anything. Even,' and here he took a deep breath, 'even if that means standing against my own aunt. You say you will not disown her mother? But if she tried, even tried, to touch Harry, I would kill her.' The force of his own words had him nearly quailing in his seat, but he maintained his firmness, straightening his back.

The coldness dimmed in Narcissa's eyes as pride took its place. Unexpected, as Draco had just professed his rather-less-than familial intentions for her sister. 'And I would expect no less of you, my son. Friendship is a bond that is irreplaceable, and deep trust and compassion priceless. Something the Dark Lord and my sister have forgotten.'

Draco felt a snort tickle his throat, but suppressed it out of politeness. 'That's rather un-Slytherin of you, mother. What happened to self-preservation and putting oneself above all others?'

An odd look was mirrored on both of his parents' faces. 'Is that what you truly believe being a Slytherin is?' Lucius sounded more curious that angry, startled rather than irate.

Shaking his head, Draco dropped his eyes from their unreadable stares. 'Not me, exactly, but just about everyone else. We have our friends, of course, but nothing comes before boosting one's own status.'

'Even family?'

Cringing slightly under the query, Draco offered a one-shouldered shrug. 'I didn't say I agreed with the general concensus.'

A bloated pause caused Draco to raise his gaze. Lucius and Narcissa were caught deeply in a wordless conversation, irritation and sadness tugging their features respectively. Narcissa sighed softly, closing her eyes. 'How sad, to see how far such a noble House has fallen.' Fixing Draco in her penetrating stare, she adopted an almost-scolding tone. 'Slytherin is about honour, pride and cunning. But most importantly, it is about family, and knowing just where to place your trust. This...skewing of perceptions is likely a product of our times, and yet I cannot help but be struck by how misunderstood the children of this generation have become. That students will fill the stereotypes impressed upon them rather than remain true to the foundations of what they are.' She exhaled heavily in despair.

'I didn't say I agreed with it.' It was Draco's turn to pin his mother with a stare, and she startled her from her sudden melancholy. 'I don't know what I really believe anymore, but what you say about stereotypes... I can't say that I completely agree with even the House structure themselves, anymore. It seems far too rigid. People don't fit so perfectly into categories. They change, grow. Harry can attest to that. You know, when he was sorted, the hat placed him in all four Houses.'

Lucius raised a thin eyebrow - the equivalent of a shout of surprise in anyone else - while Narcissa released a surprised huff as all three Malfoys turned back to the boy lying limp and pale in the bed. For a moment Draco wondered exactly how they had gotten so far off the topic at hand.

Evidently Narcissa felt the same, for with a setting of her shoulders she leant forward in her seat. It was apparent to anyone who knew her that she was taking control of the scene. 'A puzzling boy, to be sure. I would so like the chance to meet him. And I believe that he has slept for far too long. There is nothing in his physical state to elicit a prolonged unconsciousness. It is most concerning.'

'Something similar happened before, a couple of months ago at school. He was hit by a Visio timora and became comatose for several days.' Draco felt anger sizzle inside him once more; not for Pansy, though. Or, well, not very much. She hadn't been fully aware of what she was doing and they were practicing curses against one another. Even so, if he could travel back to that day, he would smack the girl over the head for even contemplating such a spell.

Narcissa hissed quietly. 'Given the circumstances, I can readily imagine how such a spell would induce a response such as this. It may explain the current situation. I can't say I wasn't expecting to proceed as such, but I had rather hoped...'

Turning towards the small tray she had set upon the beside table, Narcissa removed the linen cover to expose a trio of vials of varying colours. The far left glimmered a faintly sparkling red, while the middle a soft, dark green. It was the final vial that caused Draco to emit his own hiss, however.

'Why would you give him that?'

Narcissa didn't spare him a glance as she took the shimmering vial in her hands. 'A psychological blow cannot be healed by unconsciousness and constant reliving of the offending event.’ Narcissa didn’t even glance towards him as she raised the vial shimmering in mother-of-pearl and peered at it for a moment. ‘I can comprehend the physical and psychological basis for his mental retreat, but Harry has been sleeping for far too long already. I had hoped he would awake of his own accord, relatively healed, but it appears that is not going to happen. He would have done so already if it were. I'm going to draw him from his memories and into the sleep he needs. For that, his mind needs to be receptive to my intrusion.' She gestured tilted the vial meaningfully. ‘Hence, the psychological relaxant.’

She was so practical, so factual in her explanation, that Draco felt almost foolish for refuting her, even with his knowledge of the potentially damaging effects of the potion. Her likeness to Madam Pomfrey was astounding, especially accounting for their completely opposing characters and physicality. But Narcissa was a master of mind-magic, a skilled Legilimens and well-practiced in Occlumency. Her skills in mind-healing had once been actively sought. Likely still would be if she accepted clients. If anyone could assist Harry escape from the state he was in, it was she.

From the stare she was giving him, somehow Draco got the impression that she was asking his permission, though what control the young blonde had over the situation he was unsure of. With a hesitant nod, her lips thinned in a smile of grim satisfaction before popping the cork off the vial. Even from his seat, Draco could smell the faintly metallic scent that wafted from the potion. Eyes fixed upon his mothers motion, he watched as she ever-so-carefully tipped the contents over Harry's mouth. The liquid poured in a distinctly un-liquidous fashion, breaking into a smokey wisps as it escaped the glass mouth and darted between Harry's faintly parted lips, inhaled with each shallow breath.

'If it appears he is in pain, administer the sedative.' The focus on Narcissa's face barely spared words for the order as she waved a hand at the red vial. 'If I am not once more aware within thirty minutes, provide me with the Stabiliser.'

Draco and Lucius were still nodding their affirmation when Narcissa closed her eyes. She reached blindly across the bed, pressing a palm across Harry's brow and bowing her head to her chest. Draco squeezed Harry’s fingers slightly in his own. Legilimancy frightened him; any mind-magic frightened him, superseded only by compulsions as the most terrifying of magics. Yet he held faith in his mother, and if Harry needed the help, who was he to stand in the way?

* * *

Narcissa Malfoy had always found Legilimancy to be a disconcerting experience, regardless of how accomplished she became. She was not a cruel person, despite that many perceived her as a cold, hard-hearted witch. It pained her to inflict distress upon another, and there was just something so harsh about witnessing another’s secrets laid bare. It did not help that the most painful secrets were often those she confronted the most, hurt and sorrow drowning out the faintly glowing happiness of fonder memories.

Sinking into Harry Potter’s thoughts left Narcissa with a feeling of dark greyness. There was no other way to describe the foggy waters that surrounded her, studded with shimmering glimpses into memories before they drifted past, caught like a ribbon in a current. Nowhere could she make out the tell-tale blinding whiteness of pure happiness. Occassionally the greyness lightened in areas and she caught a glimpse of memories shrouded in fondness – brief snippets showed a boy stroking the arching back of a cat, accepting an extra apple from the woman at the grocer, receiving the thanks of an old man as he gathered his scattered belongings off the rain-slick pavement – but there was no luminescent, pure white glow. It was unhinging and achingly saddening. Depressing. Narcissa immediately knew she would not be witnessing the usual surplus of teenage woes that gripped most young wizards and witches.

Loosening the rigid hold on her own mind, Narcissa allowed her consciousness to seep, to blend into the river of tumultuous thoughts and overwhelming feelings, easily allowing the assault of images to pass over her, through her, and only glance as a passive observer rather than sinking into the amateur role of a participant. It was easy, with the relaxant, and the barriers of a conscious min were similarly absent. Yet the thoughts were a jumble; there was no order. Not that she was truly expecting any. The boy was injured, both mentally and physically. He wouldn’t wake. It was no surprise that his memories would be a disordered mass of confusion.

Asserting her own steady hand of control, Narcissa abruptly stilled the roiling swells, the coiling ribbons, into silent tranquillity. Breathing a mental sigh of relief as the psychological assault ceased, she turned her attention towards her goal. It was a challenge identifying the source of greatest pain, sometimes even more so than drawing the subconscious mind from constantly reliving the event. It was not, however, difficult to determine the memories that caused the boy the most distress. They were coloured a thick, matte blackness, a darkness that forbade the entrance of light and stood out even against their grey surroundings like a crow amongst pigeons. Pain seemed to pulse from the smudges of blackness like a throbbing heartbeats.

Feeling the magnetisation, the Narcissa allowed herself to be drawn into the nearest cloud of darkness. A mental chill settled on her perceived shoulders and the darkness cleared briefly for a theatre-like scene to play before her eyes. A small boy, dark-haired and wan with hollow cheeks and wide terrified eyes, cringed under the verbal attack of a whale-like man above him. Purple-faced and lips coated in flecks of spittle, the man waved his hands in gesticulated fury, each slash of his arm causing the boy to sink further into his crouch on the floor. Within moments, the image dissipated, darkening, before the cloud unwrapped its folded embrace and released her.

Narcissa frowned mentally. The instinctive hatred for the portly man, coupled with an abrupt wave of protectiveness, boiled loathing through her veins. The boy had been small and thin, too thin, and the fear in his eyes was something she had seen only in victims of her hated Death Eater fellows. Helpless fear and heartbreaking acceptance. Distaste clung to her mental tongue as she drifted onwards. The boy had been young, very young. That memory was not the one which caused the boy immediate pain.

Sinking into another cloud of darkness, Narcissa glimpsed only a second before immediately thrusting it away. The boy, slightly older, slumped broken on the floor, a smear of blood trickling from his nose and a sporting a blackened eye as a larger boy, much larger, sneered over the top of him, a baseball bat hefted in his hand. The woman felt her physical body shudder with a distance awareness at the violence of the bigger boy and hastily turned towards another smudge of blackness.

The boy, younger even than the first, cast like a discarded sack into a tiny cupboard beneath a stairwell.

The whale-man, belt in hand, lashing air and welted skin in equal fervour with the heat of his fury.

A gang of youngsters chasing the black-haired boy up a tree, the terrified child clinging to the brittle bark and trembling as the larger boys jeered at him from below and waved pointed sticks.

A woman, horse-faced and bone thin, thrusting the boy’s face dangerously close to an open stove-top with claw-like fingers tangled in his hair, gesturing furiously towards a plate of toast and blackened bacon.

Image after image, show reels of hatred and fear spread pestered for attention. See me, feel me, I hurt, it hurts!

She stopped.

Suspending herself in the blank greyness, nausea threatened to throw Narcissa from her Legilimens. She had seen pain dealt out in droves to wizards and witches of all ages, though blessedly had never been forced to participate herself, yet never had she witnessed such repeated acts of violence against one so young. And this was different, a different sort of violence to that she was familiar with; there was no amusement in it, save perhaps for the ignorant power-play of the fat boy, but instead a distinct hatred, a resentment towards the small boy. It hurt, it hurt, in an entirely unfamiliar way to witness such coldness.

For whatever reason, even the Dark Lord shied from raining his hatred down upon children. Even a monster such as himself didn’t descend to such depths. The plague of images played on a reel in Narcissa’s mind, bright in their immediacy. She closed herself off briefly to her surroundings, reasserting control, before opening her mind once more. In each of the memories she had witnessed, Harry Potter had been young. She needed to search nearer to the present, direct her thoughts specifically.

Focusing with determination once more, the woman shifted towards another shadow, one with a faint glossiness that indicated a newer memory. Sinking through the curtain of blackness, she stepped hesitantly into the scene beyond, foreboding already gripping her mind.

An empty hallway was the first thing she saw, a hallway bedecked in sparse adornments and washed in the colour of rain clouds. Only a low table, supporting an empty vase and pictureless frame, disrupted the expanse of carpeted floor space. Narcissa frowned, puzzled for a moment at the absence of the boy. It was his memory after all. She was about to sink back into the memory-river when the stillness was shattered with startling immediacy.

A young boy – she suspected he was about ten or eleven, though he looked horribly small for his age – crashed into a wall at the inner end of the hallway. His thin, pale legs, bare beneath only a nightshirt, trembled at the knees. Gasping in heavy sobs, he glanced behind him, eyes wide and frantic. A moments pause, and he was tearing down the hallway towards the door, passing through Narcissa’s apparition in his progress as he would a ghost. Fumbling fingers yanked at the latch, frantically attempting to unlock the front door, fingers straining for the chain-lock that dangled tauntingly just out of reach.

‘Where are you going, my boy?’

A deep, amused baritone turned both Narcissa and the boy’s heads back the length of the hallway. Narcissa flinched at the sight of the man, broad and heavy, unruly in his state of partial undress. His own trousers were unbuckled at the waist, buttoned shirt open to reveal dark hair curling in tight coils across his chest. He looked incredibly big, and Narcissa wasn’t entirely sure it was a product of the boy’s perception.

‘Please…please let me out, I don’t want to-’

‘Don’t want to?’ The hulking man’s face split in a grin beneath his immaculate moustache, words breaking through the hushed yet hysterical mumbling of the boy still fumbling with the door. Narcissa cringed, only barely retaining her presence in the face of the boy’s obvious distress. She longed for nothing more than to leap from this memory, to free herself from immersion in the terror that hung light a cloying perfume in the air.

Her attention was drawn once more to the man as he continued. ‘Vernon assured me you wanted to come, cherie.’ The sardonic smile breathed irony. ‘Don’t tell me you wish to go back.’

A pitiful whimper bubbled from the boy’s throat, barely audible as he hid his head against the door. His fingers ceased in their tugging, helpless, simply clutching the polished steel like a lifeline. Narcissa unconsciously stretched a ghostly, hand-like tendril towards the boy, wispy finger passing through his quivering shoulder. Her attention, fixed as it was on the trembling child, was only returned to the man as he approached close enough for his footsteps to resound upon the carpet with thundering clarity in the echoing depths of the memory. In the shadow of her own ‘hand’, thick calloused fingers gripped the boy’s shoulder.

It happened so fast, Narcissa wasn’t sure exactly how they ended up on the floor. Somewhere in the process, the low table had overturned and the vase shattered in a mosaic of broken china across the carpet. The man pressed himself over the wriggling boy, one arm pinning him across the chest while the other heaved both knees upwards towards his bony shoulders. A pitiful shriek rose frantically, louder than any utterance Narcissa had heard from the boy prior, until it broke in a croaking sob.

It took a moment for her to register just what was unfolding before her. The frantic thrusts of the man, the pained sobs of the child, groans that nearly drowned out the boy’s cries. Horror and disgust sent her reeling. She would have retched had she a mouth with which to gag. The man… to the boy… he had-

The memory dissipated like a breath of smoke. Narcissa drew in upon herself, the mental equivalent of falling to her knees. Erratic heaves of her mind-presence nearly shook her from the monotonous greyness of the boy’s mind. Drawing in further, she strove for the mental clarity, the sureness that made her a master Legilimens. She had never found it so hard to attain.

When eventually relative peace had settled upon her mind, Narcissa felt a coldness seeping through her. Not the coldness of forced nonchalance, but rather a numbness. She had to see this to the end, to help the boy in the only way she could. If it meant seeing…more…she would at least give the boy the compassion of witnessing his pain through to the end. The boy in the last memory was not nearly as old as that which Draco had carried through her door. She needed to see more, see closer to the present. If that meant wading through the thorns that pierced his mental quilt, she would do so,

Turning and falling blindly into another cloud of darkness, she nearly shuddered at the image that met her. The boy, older now, perhaps fourteen, lay limply in a wide bed. A thick, hairy arm slung heavily across his chest, nearly stilling the faint rise and fall. As she watched, the sleep-ruffled head of the man, the assaulter, the disgusting creature that dared to smile at the boy beside him, leaned over and pressed a hungry kiss upon the corner of the boy’s mouth.

It was nearly as horrifying to see the complete detachedness of the boy’s expression. As if he didn’t see, didn’t feel, the weighty presence of the man above him. His eyes, glazed and heavy-lidded, did not even blink. His lips made no move to respond to the crushing pressure of the larger man.

Suppressing the urge to launch herself at the villain, fruitless as the attempt would be, Narcissa eased herself from the memory just as the man heaved himself onto his elbows, into a more aggressive position. A shudder wrapped her presence once more as the images faded.

A sick heaviness had settled onto her mind. She had no doubt that, had she been observing as an onlooker from her physical form, the contents of her stomach would be decorating the floor and tears would be trailing shamelessly down her cheeks. No one deserved this, much less a boy, a helpless child. She had seen pain, she had seen loss, and sorrow, and misery in droves. In the face of the endless assault the boy suffered, the brief, blinding bursts of torture seemed somehow dimmed.

Suddenly, wishing to be free of the suffocating jumble of memories, Narcissa launched herself to the most recent memory she could sense. The desperation of her desire drew the cloud towards her in a frantic magnetised effect. The nearly reflective glossiness of the blackness was nestled against, yet not touching, an unexpectedly pale chain of memories, nearly white in their purity. A fond memory, even happy, the happiest she had seen so far. The contrasting darkness of the most recent memory was almost sinful.

Taking a steadying pause, Narcissa sunk into the clouded folds of the memory.

* * *

It happened so suddenly that Draco nearly started in his seat. Narcissa's mouth dropped open in a shaky gasp as motion once more eased the tension from her bowed form. With trembling fingers, his mother dropped her hand from Harry’s brow and clamped it to her mouth. The paleness of her cheeks had faded to a sickly grey and as her eyes opened, a haunted visage met the anxious stares of both Draco and his father.

Lucius was even faster to respond than his son. Lurching from his chair, the elder wizard dropped to his knees beside his wife, placing a hand upon her knee and peering up at her bowed head worriedly. Draco froze in his rush around the end of the bed, staring at the picture his parents made. How different they were from the cold, heartless witch and wizard they presented to the public eye. The sadness in Narcissa's eyes and the concern of equal intensity in Lucius's disregarded any claim that could be made to their emotionlessness.

Feet planted on the ground, immobile, Draco watched as Lucius gently took Narcissa's hands in his own, drawing them from the pale purple of her lips. 'Tell me?' There was no force or command in his words. Only concern, and it was directed solely at his wife.

Narcissa drew in a shuddering breath, locking her jaw. Draco was startled as she raised her gaze to meet his. There was so much sadness and compassion, and yet nearly overwhelmed by fury, that it positively seeped from her eyes. Draco had to drop his chin to fight against the desire to shrink from her intense stare.

'I saw... something that I never should have seen. Yet I am eternally grateful that I did. At least now, someone may be able to...' Another wavering breath and her voice dropped to a whisper. 'Poor child. To strike a child with the intent to injure is an abomination itself, but that... No one should have to endure that. And he just a child. I swear, if I ever meet the monster who claims to be his guardian I will take great pleasure in crippling him before destroying him completely.'

The vehemence in her harsh words tightened Draco's shoulders in a shiver. Dread flooded him and he glanced first at his mother and then to Harry's still form. He was still asleep, and yet somehow seemed more naturally so. His breathing had deepened slightly, and the frown knitting his brow smoothing to innocent ease, eyes loosening from their strained clenching. Upon the wide mattress that looked far too big for him, he resembled nothing if not a child curled in his parent's bed. Not that he would have ever had the opportunity to do just that, Draco suddenly realized with a clenching of hit gut.

Sadness immediately latched on to the writhing dread that knotted in his gut, and Draco sunk down onto the end of the bed. 'What did you see?'

Narcissa shook her head resolutely. 'I cannot tell. Suffice to say that I will never let that boy return to his uncle.' The venom that overlaid the word twisted it into an ugly resemblance of the figure the term suggested. Fastening her penetrating gaze upon her son, the woman breathed command and intensity as she spoke. 'Draco, you will look after him. He has been hurt more than anyone his age, more than anyone ever, should have the misfortune to even witness, let alone experience.'

Draco nodded in acceptance, cringing slightly as the words conjured a wave of possibilities in his mind. Just what had happened to Harry? He knew it was bad, painful, horrendous even; nothing that wasn't could induce the screaming fit he had witnessed in Defense Against the Dark Arts, nor draw someone into a comatose state in an attempt to recover from the emotional blow. It made him sick to contemplate, and he naturally felt himself slide further along the bed, shuffling back to his friend’s side to grasp his hand once more.

Narcissa appeared satisfied with the response. Some of the paleness had faded from her cheeks, yet the haunted shadows in her eyes remained. Dropping her chin to face her husband, she hushed her tone to a quiet ferocity that Draco could only just make out. He kept his face directed towards Harry, knowing the words were not for him.

'We will find that man, Lucius. I care not that he is a Muggle, nor that his French residency grants him reprieve from British Wizarding laws. You know wizarding laws will always shy from confronting the Muggle judicial system; any attempt to avoid confrontation will only sweep the situation under a rug.’ Her lip curled fiercely. ‘But that monster, he must be punished. And if the world is too oblivious to realise as much then I will do so myself.'

To his credit, Lucius did not question his wife's motives. He simply dipped his chin in consent. 'I will see what I can do. What can you tell me of the man?' Rising to his feet, Lucius drew Narcissa to standing beside him, one hand placed upon her forearm and the other supportively resting against the small of her back. Wordlessly, the pair withdrew from the room, pausing only to cast identical glances over their shoulder as they passed through the doorway. Draco could faintly hear the whisper of their continued conversation, muffled by their retreat, which gradually faded into silence.

Gritting his teeth against the tightness in his chest, Draco sidled further up the mattress to his friend’s side. He didn't know exactly what Narcissa had seen, didn't know the tortures of Harry's past, but he shuddered as a glimmer of horrifying suspicions formed in his mind. _No one should have to endure_ that… He thrust the thought to the side, though it hovered tauntingly on the edges of his consciousness, sneering at him with possibilities. Coldness swept through him. How had he not seen it? The fear of touching, his expressionlessness, the natural quietness, to say nothing of the fact that he never spoke of his family. Each could be brushed off as a common quirk, but together?

Unconsciously, Draco’s free hand rose to brush Harry's fringe from his pale face. Still pale, but thankfully not that horrible greyness of barely an hour before. Across his cheek were a faint, very faint, netting of nearly healed scars. With detached curiosity, Draco wondered which of many possibly crimes had inflicted such a wound. Guilt rushed through him, that he hadn't noticed something that was so pivotal to his friend’s life. That he hadn’t somehow protected him. Never again, he promised, would Harry have to suffer alone. Never again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: As always, thank you - THANK YOU! - to my wonderful commenters. I've received some really lovely words and it is truly so kind of you to be so nice to me! I love each and every one of you xx


	12. The Light of the New

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: a bit of a wordy chapter again. I didn't realise quite how long an wordy it was. This should be the last of the 'explanatory' sort of chapter though, I should think. I apologise if this annoys anyone. Hope you enjoy!

The first thing he was aware of was the warmth. A comforting, blessed warmth that cocooned him in a loving embrace, pulsing like a living entity along the length of his body. The smooth softness of the blankets around him settled just tightly enough to insulate the warmth, but not so tight as to be constricting. The pillow beneath his head was plusher than anything he had ever felt. He could never recall having experienced a more comfortable awakening, not even at Hogwarts.

Until the memories came crashing down.

With a faint whimper, Harry tucked his knees tightly to his chest, curling upon himself and burying further beneath the sheets. Despite the cocooning warmth, he shuddered with a chill at the sudden assault of memories.

Why? Why did it have to hurt so badly this time?

It was with detached motions that his arms eased from his legs slightly, unconsciously raising the blankets to welcome a small intrusive presence into his bubble of seclusion. The fluff of Lyssy’s furry cheek caressed his own as she snuck adeptly beneath the sheets, slithering like a worm into the darkness beneath and sliding herself between Harry's knees and chest, head butting under his chin. Just that simple motion was enough to break the dam of pain and a wash of tears flushed through him.

_What did I ever do to deserve such a loyal companion? I'd be lost without you, Lyssy._

Suddenly, forcing their release from clenched eyelids, trickles of warmth began to dribble silently down his cheeks. Running down his nose and across his chin, they pattered like raindrops into the mattress beneath him.

_What is this? Why am I crying? I don't cry, I can never cry, or else someone will see. Someone will see and then everything that I have to hide will be shown to everyone. Showing is dangerous. It can only be exploited and damaged. Don't cry, stop crying, stop it stop it stopitstopitstopit..._

The mantra rung through his head with the consistency of a dripping tap, insistent, demanding. It didn’t work at first but finally, feeling utterly drawn and spent, a sponge squeezed of all water, the tears fizzled to a stop. Harry clutched Lyssy to his chest, the pliable limbs molding to him in an odd embrace. The cat didn't protest, simply purred a comforting lullaby that hummed loudly through the tent of blankets. Harry wasn't sure how long he lay in the cradling huddle, but eventually he regained enough composure to push his head from the shadows of his little tent and gather his bearings.

A psychological coldness expelled the physical warmth as Harry took in the unfamiliar room around him. The absence of his glasses presented a distorted view, as though he peered through fog, but he could still make out the shapes that sparsely populated the room. It was large, larger even than Featherwood's bedroom at Hogwarts, and immaculately clean, draped in soft, fuzzy off-whites with a smattering of caramel to break up the lighter tones. A small fireplace crackled directly before the bed and a stout, oaken wardrobe propped on splayed feet crouched in the corner of the room. To the left of the bed was a plump azure armchair with the impression of a body still crumpling the cushions; it looked starkly out of place in the sparse bedroom, as though it had appeared in the otherwise sparse arrangement of it’s own accord. Just behind the chair, a window, visible through thin rippling curtains of the same rich caramel, exposed sky the deep grey of either early morning or late evening. There was absolutely nothing imposing about the room. Save its unfamiliarity.

_Where...am I?_

The thought sent Harry scrambling through the jumble of memories buzzing hazily in his mind with the same urgency that he untangled himself from the sheets. He was dressed in a thin yet comfortable set of pale, silken pajamas that hugged his body as though made for him. Even that was disconcerting. Easing himself onto the side of the bed, he had to stretch to reach to wooden floors for the plumpness of the mattress and impressive height of the framed structure. The pale floors were unexpectedly warm beneath his toes, for all its apparent woodenness.

Straightening in wary anticipation, Harry was surprised to realise that the aches, the bone-deep bruising that would have surely incapacitated him in his previous flight had he not been numbed by the cold, were completely absent. The realisation renewed his ever-present fears with revisited intensity. How long had he been out? Clutching Lyssy to his chest, the continuing purr the only thing keeping him from breaking into terrified quivering, Harry eased towards the door cracked slightly ajar. Pressing his eye to the crack he peered into a candlelit hallway of the same pale timber floors and creamy walls. And abruptly a myriad of colourful memories returned.

 _Draco... I saw Draco. After I left my uncle, and I couldn't run any more, I just stopped and... Did I really see him? Is that where I am, with Draco? But then… where is he?_ Harry stroked his fingers through Lyssy's downy fur to ease his frazzled nerves once more. For all he knew, the other boy hated him, or at least disliked him, because of the events of the end of term. Despite they memory of the comforting embrace, the fearful concern that had lathered the tone of words blurred and forgotten, Harry couldn't say for certain that the Slytherin boy held him in anything but contempt. He had done something to the other boy that he didn't understand but was clearly unacceptable. Would Draco even want to see him? Perhaps his concern was simply pity for someone in a pathetic situation; Harry would hardly deem himself anything but such when he staggered into Metropolitan Paris. For all his posing, all his pretending, Draco was a kind person. Harry believed he would most likely show concern for someone he hated.

And even if he didn't hate him, the nature of their unexpected meeting would raise unwanted questions. Questions that Draco had potentially deduced answers for already. For, hazy as his mind was, Harry could realized that the pajamas didn’t dress him themselves. Or at least if they had, not without a magical caster. The prospect was terrifying. That someone might know...

Easing the door open on well-oiled hinges, Harry slipped into the hallway. The house was silent, for which he was grateful. That meant there was less opportunity for someone, Draco or otherwise, to sneak up on him. Not that he was accusing his rescuers - for even in his fear Harry recognised them for what they were - but it was always better to be safe and prepared than bombarded by the unexpected.

Peeping into room after room as he passed them, peering around the corners of doorways to assure himself of their emptiness, Harry was rather stunned by the sheer size of the building he was in. It appeared to be a home in terms of the furniture that outfitted it – smooth, stately couches, half-filled bookshelves and even immaculately made beds in bedrooms as large as that he’d just left – but the height of the ceiling, the sheer magnitude of empty rooms that begged to be filled by idle chatter, bespoke more of a heritage house open for display that a comfortable living abode. With the continued absence of people, Harry felt his fear diminish to wary curiosity, to confusion.

It was because of this relinquishing of fear that when he finally passed a room with an inhabitant he was halfway past the doorway and far too obvious to hide himself once more. He froze like a startled rabbit, eyes widening as the woman reading silently in the room turned towards him.

She presented a regal figure, if one could still resemble such in the modern age, dressed in the fashion of witches in flowing navy robes, high neck and trailing sleeves. Even with his blurred vision Harry could discern as much. Straight back and set shoulders, her patrician profile, all straight, perfect lines and high cheek bones, immediately made him feel rugged and dirty. He was abruptly aware of his tangled hair and the concerning absence of memory when he tried to recall the last time he’d used a shower. Fingers tightening around Lyssy, he waited under her inspection, breathless for... what? A scolding? A sneer of disdain?

Rather the opposite was offered him. In contrast to her cold, aristocratic demeanor, the woman offered a welcoming smile that softened her face immensely. Closing the book in her lap, she raised an arm gracefully and beckoned him warmly with a flicker of her fingers. 'Come in, Harry.'

The simple fact that she knew his name embedded a faintly hesitant ease in Harry. She can’t be all that bad. It was an ignorant assumption, he objectively perceived, but he couldn’t repress the slight loosening of his tensed, the release of his breath. Swallowing nervously he stepped into the room, though stopped at the edge of the intricately woven rug positioned across the center of the room like a stage beneath the trio of single armchairs. He didn't want to dirty it with his feet.

Registering his halt, the woman quirked a questioning eyebrow at him. He bowed his head, dropping his chin, and fixed his eyes firmly on the embroidery interwoven into the border of the rug. He’d approached her, so perhaps that was enough. If she wanted to talk to him…

The woman was not having such hesitancy, however. 'Take a seat with me.'

Cringing, but reluctant to ignore her order - for order it was, no matter how kindly voiced - Harry stepped softly onto the rug and made his way to the seat opposite her. He perched on the very edge, toes raised to barely touching on the soft floor-cover, and kept his chin buried in the fluff atop Lyssy's head. He could feel the woman’s gaze upon his bowed head, but even her welcoming openness couldn’t draw him from his rising anxiety.

‘How are you feeling this morning, Harry?’

For a moment, Harry wondered what the woman was trying to accomplish. The emphasis on his name bespoke almost a therapeutic approach to a clinical situation, an attempt to draw him into conversation under an illusion of familiarity. Harry recognized the motions for what they were – his social isolation and general quietness in class had seen him in a counselor’s office more than once in his time in the Muggle schools system.

‘Very well, thank you, ma’am.’

A soft sigh met his words. ‘I didn’t ask for false pleasantries, Harry. How do you really feel?’ There was only faint reprimand in her tone, despite the words, gently nudging his in the intended direction. Harry swallowed, biting back his natural instinct to withdraw from the prying query and peered up at the woman through his fringe. Her clear, pale face frames by immaculately groomed blonde tresses was calm, relaxed; he got the impression that, had she wanted to, she could outlast a boulder in a staring contest.

‘I’m… feeling better than I was, ma’am. Still a little tired, I think, but otherwise fine.’ He paused, then added a brief ‘thank you’ beneath his breath before dropping his eyes once more.

‘Hungry?’

Harry shook his head. ‘No, thank you, ma’am.’

‘Such a polite young man.’ Harry could almost hear the faint quiver of amusement in her otherwise kindly words. He glanced back up at her, surprised that a soft, open smile met his nervousness. ‘I do believe, however, that it is only fair that you address me by their first name when I have taken the liberty of doing so myself.’

Sitting forward slightly in a way that appeared to be an attempt to reduce the formal distance between them, the woman’s smiled widened with a sudden warmth. ‘My name is Narcissa Malfoy. It is a pleasure to finally meet you, Harry.’

Harry had never been comfortable with being near people, to say nothing of touching them, and yet… Perhaps it was recognition of the name she offered, or perhaps simply the sincerity of her tone, but somehow even the closing proximity between them did not feel as confronting to Harry as he would have expected. He still fidgeted slightly on the edge of the seat, peering at the woman nervously. ‘You’re Draco’s…?’

‘Mother.’ Loving warmth blossomed in Narcissa’s smile this time.

Harry had nearly picked the skin of his collarbone bloody before he realised what he was doing. The damned nervous tick. He hastily forced his fingers back to their cradle of Lyssy’s shoulders, hoping Narcissa hadn’t seen. She didn’t bat an eyelid.

Clearing his throat, closed in his subconscious urge to maintain his silence, he uttered an almost whispered question. ‘Where is he?’

‘He is still abed, I presume. Not all Malfoys are such early risers as I. I believe he is fulfilling the stereotype of teenage youths far too aptly, don’t you agree?’ She cocked her head, but turned her eyes towards the door. The meaning was clear to Harry, even as inexperienced in conversation as he was; Draco’s mother was attempting to lighten the mood, to ease his discomfort maybe, but was not forcing a response to her attempts.

‘I think, however,’ she continued, turning back towards him, ‘that he requested the house elves alert him upon your awakening. I would not be surprised to see him ploughing through the door at any moment.’

Harry dipped his chin thoughtfully as he contemplated the image Narcissa presented. He could hardly picture Draco ‘ploughing’ through anything. It seemed far too undignified. He didn’t comment, however, and the awkwardness of the silence that ensued apparently became obvious even to the witch across from him for she broke it suddenly once more.

‘I suppose you have questions? Is there anything you would like to ask?’

Harry didn’t respond. Of course there where questions: where was he? How did he get here? How long had he been asleep? Did his uncle know where he was? Did anyone else know where he was? The list was endless and only grew more daunting the longer he contemplated it. He clutched Lyssy more tightly, closing his eyes briefly in an attempt to collect himself. It didn’t work as well as he had hoped and he felt a faint tremble set itself in his limbs.

Perceiving his hesitancy, Narcissa continued as though he had replied. ‘Three days ago, Draco found you and brought you to our home. He said he… met you in _Parc Montsouris_ when he went for a walk. You were rather unwell, and as such we took care of you in the days since. Simply to ensure your wellbeing, I assure you.’

Not unaware of the deliberate censoring of Narcissa’s explanation, Harry let himself sink backwards into his chair until his back propped against the soft cushions. He still didn’t speak, but the woman before him didn’t seem to mind, continuing regardless. He didn’t miss the slight sharpening of her eyes, either.

‘It is, of course, our pleasure to extend your stay for as long as you wish to be here. Would that be to your satisfaction, Harry?’

There was no avoiding the question this time. Harry lifted his chin slightly from his cringe, easing out from Lyssy’s still, comforting embrace. ‘You would let me stay with you?’

That radiant warmth touched the Narcissa’s lips once more. ‘More than that, we would be delighted if you agreed to stay. Would you?’

Harry was unsure of how else to respond. It was surreal, the abrupt welcoming; he wasn’t quite sure how to respond to it. He had never stayed at a friend’s house in his entire life, and the move to Featherwood’s rooms at Hogwarts had been nearly earth-shattering; he had been glad of his solitude as he struggled with his initial discomfort in the room a week before the schooling year had begun. That had been only at the beginning, though, until he experienced the true liberty of living away from the Dursleys, from his uncle, for the first time in his life.

Curiosity niggled the back of his mind as Harry truly considered what was being offered. Unconsciously, almost against his will, he felt himself nodding. Almost… eagerly.

At least, until dread welled up once more. Hanging along the edges of his awareness since he had awoken, stark panic flooded him once more. Suddenly he couldn’t breath. The room was too small and at once too large. His vision blanked and he fell back into the static silence of his mind.

Oh God, my uncle! I’ve been gone for three days? He would have… just like that time four years ago, he’ll go to the police and-

‘…arry, it’s alright. No one will force you to do anything you don’t want to. Just breathe.’

Shaken from his crushing stupor, Harry flinched at the proximity of the voice. Vision swimming into familiar fogginess, he shuddered as reality set upon him once more. Shuddered and jerked backwards at being abruptly confronted by the proximity of Narcissa Malfoy. She knelt with more grace upon the carpet before him than he thought possible in such a position. Even with the difference of the height of the chair, hunched as he was the witch’s gaze was nearly at eye level.

Registering her words slowly, Harry realised his breath had shortened into harsh pants. The swimming of his vision was likely due as much to oxygen deprivation as his naturally poor eyesight. Holding his breath, he struggled to restore control to the near-hyperventilation. It was hard; he couldn’t remember that ever happening before.

‘Good, that’s good. Deep breaths. There, now release it.’ Narcissa’s soothing tone calmed him as much as the methodical motions themselves, a novelty that his befuddled mind barely registered. ‘I did not mean to startle you. Would you tell me what troubles you?’

That same calm, soothing tone drew the words from his mouth before he was aware of their escape. ‘My uncle, h-he will be furious. I shouldn’t have… I mean, he doesn’t know where I am, he might-’ He had to grit his teeth as his breathing threatened to shorten to pants once more. He clenched his eyes shut, struggling for composure. It was disconcerting, unfamiliar; he had never had so much trouble controlling himself before. Why now?

‘You uncle will have no more say in your situation than you allow him, Harry. Unless you request his presence, I can assure you, he will be excluded.’

The coldness of her tone was what alerted him first. The coldness, and then the icy fury that he bore witness to in the sudden hardness of her blue eyes, glimpsed the moment he met them before she quickly smothered it. And suddenly, it clicked into place.

‘Y-you k-know.’

At least his vision didn’t blank this time. Rather, instead, an auditory clarity pierced his eardrums until he could swear he even heard the woman’s heartbeat. He froze in his huddled seat, fingers sharpening to claws in Lyssy’s wispy fur. The cat only snuggled more closely, her purring throbbing.

Nodding, perhaps recognising the pointlessness of continuing a farce when she saw it, Narcissa leant forward slightly. That same odd acceptance of her nearness halted him from sinking away from her. ‘Yes, I know. But I am the only one who knows, and that is the way I will keep it, unless you should state otherwise.’

‘How?’ His question was barely a whisper.

‘You wouldn’t wake. I am familiar with mental trauma, such as that driven by an innate defensive magical response. It would have been unsafe to leave you in such a state for too long. I assessed your mind for triggers and drew you from your stasis.’

Harry fought to swallow down a parched throat, the muscles in his neck clenching and making it nearly impossible. ‘How much did you…?’

He didn’t need to finish the question. The softness of Narcissa’s eyes spoke it all. Pity? No, not quite as harsh as pity. He didn’t recognise what it was, but he understood what it meant. She knew it all. And she didn’t hate him, wasn’t disgusted.

Slowly, with deliberate care, Narcissa raised her hand and placed it gently upon the top of Harry’s head. It was a strange gesture, one he was not familiar with. There was no motive behind it, no progression _towards_ anything. It made it entirely unexpected, incomprehensible. He couldn’t tell whether it was pleasant or not, yet his numb surprise muted both the expected tingles of repulsion and the rising nausea that roiled in his gut.

The unknown woman, one who shed such warmth upon him, a total stranger, simply knelt in silence. She waited, waited for his move, for him to direct their response to her proffered gesture of compassion. At least… Harry thought it may have been compassion; he’d never been on the receiving end of anything quite like it before. So he couldn’t respond. He didn’t know how. There was no malice in the soft placement of the hand that bespoke the compulsive need for his immediate withdrawal, and no suggestion to indicate the direction he was supposed to take. He felt at a loss.

Suspended as he was, his body apparently felt the need to take subconscious control and dove into a decision that Harry did not entirely expect. He should have, really, given his performance that morning. Yet he was still surprised when tears welled and spilled from his eyes, dribbling down to dripping from his chin and leaving snail trails in their wake, dampening his lips with saltiness.

‘I’m s-sorry.’ He loosened a hand from Lyssy’s back as she wriggled closer into his neck, wiping trembling fingers across his eyelids. It felt messy. ‘I don’t mean to cry-’

‘Nonsense.’ There wasn’t any sting in Narcissa’s words, only sad kindness. ‘Tears are not something to be ashamed of, nor do they speak of weakness. Only that we have been strong for too long.’ Her hand pressed ever so slightly more firmly upon his head. Once more Harry couldn’t seem find it in himself to shrink in a compulsive cringe. He didn’t think he wanted to. ‘I know you do not know me, Harry, but that does not mean that I cannot help you. If you will let me?’

Harry peered at her upturned face through watery eyes, sniffling in an attempt to retain some semblance of composure and prevent the tears from leaking from his nose too. No matter how many times he blinked, they kept coming. It was infuriating, but the aching hollowness in his chest didn’t seem to care. He only nodded faintly, not acceptance exactly but acknowledging the offer as it were.

Narcissa mirrored the motion. ‘Good. Then here, my first offer of assistance.’ Removing her hand from his head and reaching into the sleeve of her robe, the witch produced a starched white handkerchief and offered it to him. Sobbing in a bubble of – amusement? – Harry took the folded cloth and held it to his eyes.

‘Thank you.’ He wasn’t sure if she could even hear him around the muffler, but he said it anyway.

‘You are most welcome. I think perhaps that it is-’

‘-arry?!’

Both witch and boy froze in their motions, Harry in wiping his face and Narcissa as she rose to her feet once more.

‘Harry, where are you?!’

An affectionate smile dawning on her face, Narcissa turned towards the door. ‘There, perhaps I have better predictive abilities than I had considered.’ She cast a very Draco-like smirk towards Harry that startled the tears from falling with its mimicry. He was still staring up at the woman when Draco appeared in the doorway.

His familiar patrician features, high cheekbones and straight nose, were at once reminiscent of his mother’s in a way that Harry hadn’t realised until confronted with the two of them together. Wide blue eyes peered into the room frantically as he interjected himself into the room in a flurry of motion. The simple act of the robe draped over pyjamas and slippers on his feet in an attempt at propriety, were such a contrast his tousled white-blonde hair and anxious expression that Harry was startled from his abrupt tensing and reflexive tensing.

‘Mother, have you seen-’

The words died on the other Draco’s lips as his scan of the room jerked to a halt, eyes fastening upon Harry still slumped in his chair. The world seemed to silence, to freeze. Despite Narcissa’s words, despite the very telling actions the Slytherin youth had conducted in _bringing him to his home,_ the quivering doubt remained. Why is it that a sliver of anger, of perceived hatred, can overwhelm the clarity of kindness and compassion so easily?

His doubts were shunted forcefully to the side, however, when Draco sagged – with as much elegance as one could sag – into the doorframe. He closed his eyes briefly and wiped a hand over his pale forehead. ‘Thank Salazar, I thought you had disappeared.’ With such relief radiating from him, alongside the illogical words, Harry couldn’t deny his sincerity even had he wanted to.

Lyssy was lucky to have jumped free of his lap when Harry launched himself from the chair, for she would have undoubtedly been trampled had she fallen before him to the floor. Like a marionette jerked on his strings, unwittingly driven by a compulsive need, Harry stumbled across the room. Nearly tripping on trembling legs, he hadn’t even made it to the doorway before Draco met him halfway. Warm arms wrapped around his shoulders even as his own clasped around the taller boy’s middle.

There was no repulsion. No instant rush of shivers, quivers of disgust or fear, that always gripped him when he touched someone else. No unexplainable coldness to contrast the expected warmth of contact. The familiar anxiety that accompanied of skin on skin was replaced by only the softness and heat of a living body, the tenderness of a steady embrace. It was comforting, blissful, unassuming – had he likened it to anything, Harry would have said that it felt like hugging Lyssy.

He pressed himself more firmly into Draco as the blonde boy pressed his chin into the side of his head. The shadow of Narcissa’s hand – though not unpleasant was undoubtedly disconcerting – was erased like chalk from a blackboard. He couldn’t explain why is suddenly felt so right. Only that it did.

Warm breath touched his hair. ‘Welcome back to the land of the living.’

Harry could only nod.

* * *

For the next few days, Harry became something of a guest-patient to the Malfoy family. Well, at least to Draco and Narcissa. Mother and son seemed to feel it their goal to ensure his every need was met and he hadn’t the heart to even attempt to tell them not to worry. They seemed to enjoy it so much. Who knew that Draco had such a paternal side?

Narcissa had maintained that, though any physical injuries upon his body were healed, he was still weak both physically and magically, and bed rest would be the best thing for him. Harry was uneasy at the bluntness of her words at first, especially as she spoke them within Draco’s hearing, but as his friend gave no indication of surprise or concern Harry had to assume that he was at least aware of the damage his uncle had inflicted upon him, even if he didn’t know the cause of them. God, he hoped Draco didn’t know the cause. Harry wasn’t sure how he felt about the entire situation, exactly, but since Draco felt no driving need to press for an explanation, Harry could only gratefully accept his understanding. Draco was like that; he hadn’t questioned that day in Defence Against the Dark Arts either, even when Harry suspected he may have been tempted to.

Harry’s days were filled with nothing much but sleeping, eating, and resting. Initially, he had been surprised by how much he slept; he had assumed that after three days of doing nothing but that he would have quite had his fill. However, it was not unexpected for him fall to sleep half a dozen times a day for a sequence of catnaps that lasted anywhere from ten minutes to an hour. The bed that had been most graciously afforded to him was more than welcoming of such.

The house elves, likely under Narcissa’s direct instruction, seemed to feel it their duty to ensure he had a steady stream of meals flowing through the room on a nearly hourly basis. It was unexpected, to say the least, as much for the very presence of the house elves as the consistency of their attendance. But they seemed to positively glow beneath every request that Narcissa ordered of them, one of which Harry suspected must have been the train-like delivery of meals. Harry wasn’t oblivious to the witch’s frown of concern when he barely tasted a spoonful of anything. Appetite was never one of his strong points, and what little he had seemed to have shrunk even further.

Not to say that it went to waste. Draco, at least, seemed to appreciate the elves attempts. He often picked at the plates that seemed to appear of their own accord in between attempts at coercing Harry into joining him. Most of the time he failed, but it never stopped him from trying.

Draco spent most of his time with Harry. Well, all of his time, really, unless he was as he described it ‘called away by mother or father’. Much to his annoyance, if the frown and puff of his cheeks was any indication. As his exclamation upon their reunion had suggested, he seemed to fear that Harry would disappear if he took his eyes off of him. More than once Harry had awoken in the middle of the night to find Draco asleep on the wide armchair his mother had reportedly conjured for him the day of Harry’s arrival, chin propped on his hand and a frown slightly creasing his brow. It was oddly comforting.

Which was, in itself, perhaps the strangest part. He had always felt most comfortable with Draco at Hogwarts. The other boy had not been as affectionate as Hermione and at times Pansy, as amiable as Neville, blatantly humorous like Ron or even laid-back like Blaise, but for some reason it had always been the most comfortable around the blonde boy. Perhaps it had something to do with their similarities; no one could ever say they were alike, true, but they shared the overwhelming need to simply ‘hide’ themselves. The unacknowledged bond that developed as a result, at least Harry thought, made it far more comfortable than anything he had felt with any of his other friends.

Surprisingly, Harry realised after the first day that, despite tormenting himself since their confrontation with Draco’s strange tattoo, that he no longer held any doubts about the affection Draco held for him. It just simply… was. And somehow, he knew that there would be little – if anything – that he could do to change that. Maybe that was why he could suddenly touch the other boy without cringing from the sting.

Draco didn’t comment on this newly acquired skill – for skill Harry certainly felt it was – but he seemed to make the most of it. Spending as much time in Harry’s rooms as was possible, he seemed to extend this presumption to taking a seat right beside the smaller boy on his bed, of all things. Harry didn’t mind, to be honest. The bed was large enough to sleep a small family, so it was hardly cramped. Narcissa did raise an eyebrow the first time she observed them as such, but she hadn’t commented. The slight incredulity she had quickly hidden, however, suggested to Harry that Draco was not often found quite so at ease with his other friends. He seemed even more comfortable than Harry himself, if the several times he had actually fallen to sleep on the pillow beside him was any indication. It was such a strange sight, to see Draco’s face slack and relaxed in sleep. Unveiled, as Harry had never fully witnessed before.

Harry had suggested after the first incident that he take himself to his own bed if he wanted to sleep, that he shouldn’t be obliged to babysit him when he himself felt tired. Draco had seemed nearly horrified at the prospect, though had quickly masked his concern.

‘What if you get sick again? Or if you need something?’

Harry only shook his head slightly, curious. ‘Your mother performs a medical exam on me every morning, and the house elves wander through every half an hour or so. I’ll be fine.’

‘No. No, I’m staying here.’ And that was the end of it.

He didn’t admit it, not fully, even to himself, but the knowledge that Harry was just a little bit glad of the decision wasn’t totally unrealised. The first few days had been a watery mess in between bouts of sleep, tears leaking from him like a punctured dam, the cause of which even Harry didn’t know. It appeared that years of dryness, of firmly clamping a lid upon his emotions, abruptly sprung free of his tight hold. His tear ducts apparently decided to have an uprising and burst at every possible opportunity, dragging an upwelling of overwhelming and roiling mass of emotions behind them. Harry was surprised that anyone could cry so much without deflating.

Narcissa kept reassuring him that it was fine, it was perfectly natural and to be expected even, while Draco simply offered him a shoulder or a hand to hold and a comforting pat, rocking him gently until the tears stopped. The response of his friend was more surprising than anything else. Harry felt for sure that, kind though he was, at the first sign of such pathetic desperation, at such an overt display of distress on his part, Draco would withdraw if not turn and flee.

The blonde boy did nothing of the sort. He seemed not driven away by the overt displays of emotion but rather drawn to them; any inkling of distress on Harry’s part and he leap upon it protectively like a kitten on a ball of wool. Comforting him quietly until Harry’s sobs died, he would prop himself up in the pillows with an arm around his shoulder and sink into a discussion of the most inane topics: quidditch was a constant, Pansy and Blaise and the Gryffindors another, and once a rather disgruntled explanation of the first and only time he had visited France prior to the present instance. Harry slumped against him in muted attention, simply listening to the other boy speak and very rarely offering input as the overwhelming tide of emotions subsided. For those first few days speaking was hard, but Draco’s constant presence offered more by way of a healing treatment than any kind of therapy. The bouts of hysteria and mulling depression drew back from the surface to a more manageable level with remarkable speed. It was a blessing, to say the least.

Whenever Draco was absent – admittedly very infrequently as after the first two nights he refused to retreat to his own room for sleep and simply slept on the couch until Narcissa ordered the house elves to install another bed – Narcissa sat by his bedside. Harry didn’t object to her presence, but it felt even more like he was being babysat. He quickly became used to their time spent together, however; he had to, as at least once a day, if not more, the elusive Lucius Malfoy would request his son’s presence. Harry had never met the man, but the simple formality of the ‘request’ left him uneasy.

Narcissa was like a quieter, calmer, and more thoughtful version of her son. The similarities were not simply in their face but in the temperament and even their responses. The small, knowing smile Draco wore so well definitely came from his mother. It was these similarities more than anything that likely eased the initial discomfort between them.

Unlike her son, however, Narcissa did not appear to need to keep up a constant flow of conversation. She talked, in her soft, calm voice that had a lulling quality, but just as often as not she brought a book along with her and frequently left it in his care when she left. Much to Draco’s annoyance, as they were truly interesting reads that Harry at times found himself engrossed in. He had half-heartedly bemoaned Harry’s bookishness until the day of revelation when, peering over his shoulder as he squinted through hazy eyes to read ‘She: A History of Adventure’. Not even the very Muggle author was enough to dissuade him. The books themselves became a focal point of discussion.

One of the strangest parts of Narcissa’s visits, however, was the Touch. At least that was how Harry thought of it. The most discomforting moment of their brief moments together, which was oddly one of the most anticipated. Just as on their first day of meeting, just before Draco appeared as though she timed it exactly, the Narcissa would place her hand softly and unassumingly upon his head. It was just a Touch, no movement and no petting, no tugging of hairs or unnecessary pressure. Harry had initially struggled to breath with the encounter; it was foreign, uncomfortable bordering on a physical itch, and seemed entirely unnecessary. He had never experienced such simple, unassuming contact with someone and before Draco apparent immunity had never been _able_ to do so without some extreme discomfort.

He couldn’t have said at exactly what point the discomfort lessened, but quite abruptly Harry realised that the Touch didn’t hurt. How could it, really? It was _just_ a touch, with no intent and certainly no persistence. What had shocked him even more than the realisation that he far from hated the contact was that he almost found it… comfortable. Shaking himself out of a nearly dozing daze when the woman had kept her hand atop his head for nearly ten minutes, he had stared at her with incredulity that she replied with a soft, kind smile, her hand slipping into her lap.

‘Are you alright?’

Harry had simply nodded. For once, he was truly honest.

Of course, it did not go as perfectly as all that. Draco seemed to be more highly strung than usual. Not towards Harry, to be sure. It was a little disconcerting at first, how utterly calm and soothing he was being, until Narcissa had simply explained that her son had been sorely worried for him and it was a way for him to cope with the stress of his anxiety. Harry had understood, though it had still been surprising. He couldn’t remember a time, if ever, that anyone had ever offered true concern for his wellbeing. His friends at Hogwarts had shown something of the sort, but there had always been that hesitancy given the newness of their friendship.

Draco’s behaviour was entirely different to such forced formality. However, this concern seemed to unleash a knock-on effect of disgruntlement towards his father who, much to Draco’s affront, had yet to visit Harry. More than once he strode back from his ‘meetings’ with his father with an expression of hardness that so obviously hid seething anger that Harry wondered at his efforts to hide it at all. Narcissa had explained in carefree terms that it was simply venting, frustration spawned from her husband and son – both strong personalities – going head to head on an issue and failing to reach an agreement.

At Harry’s concern and sudden guilt, which he failed to hide much to his embarrassment, the woman had assured him that, yes, while the issue of Harry’s care was a topic that they discussed, it was hardly top on the priority list and even had it been there that Lucius was not against Harry’s presence in his house. Merely wary. That had settled Harry slightly, though he still felt tension settle upon his shoulders whenever Draco disappeared with a clenching jaw.

The matter of his glasses was another issue that arose shortly after Harry awoke. That very day, to be precise. Back in the bedroom, Narcissa was conducting the first of many medical exams upon him. Mostly mentally focused by with an element of physical assessment, she had paused and stared at him questioningly. Draco had nearly had a stroke in his burst of concern, but had been waved back into his seat by a distracted Narcissa.

‘Harry, do you wear glasses?’

Harry nodded. There was no reason to hide the fact. He only failed to wear them because he hadn’t the time to grab his spares in his fear-driven flight three days before.

‘Myopia?’

Another nod.

‘Well, no trouble. We can see about getting them fixed so you won’t have to wear them anymore. Optical medimancy has improved exponentially in the last decade. Such procedures are fairly standard, most disorders easily fixed…’

Narcissa’s voice hollowed in Harry’s ears before buzzing to a muted echo to be replaced by the throbbing of his heartbeat on his eardrums. And all of a sudden, he wasn’t in the room anymore. It was the second time Harry’s vision blacked out in as many hours. Before he quite registered his own terror, the air thickened in viscosity, suddenly infinitely harder to breath, and an unnatural heat flushed his body. With the absence of even the comforting presence of Lyssy in his hands to offer an immediate distraction. his fingers darted compulsively to his collarbones and dug nails into the exposed skin. His chin dropped and he shrunk backwards into the bed.

_Not allowed, I’m not allowed anyone else to see. Only him, the glasses… I need them for everyone else, only him I don’t… Not allowed, I’m can’t – I’m not allowed to-_

‘…alm down, Harry, calm down. Just breathe.’

Suddenly long, slender fingers grasped his own and tugged their clawing motions from his neck. A soothing hand – at least he assumed it was meant to be soothing – cupped the side of his head. It didn’t feel good, but the sparks of repulsive discomfort it triggered were enough to jolt his vision back into action and to break the frantic pace his breathing had taken up.

Blinking in a frantic flutter of his lashes, Harry peered up into Draco’s face. Draco, the one who clasped his hands in one of his own, who patted the side of his head softly. The blonde met his eyes straight on, unflinchingly, the blurriness dissipated slightly by his proximity. His intensity was broken only by the worry wrinkling his brow and the tightness of his jaw.

Strangely, as soon as the owner of the hands was realised, the pangs of discomfort disappeared, replaced only by gentle warmth. Harry felt his throbbing heartbeat slow, his gasping pants slowing to ragged breaths and finally only weary heaviness. The panic attack – for suddenly, with the clarity of renewed consciousness, he recognised it for what it was – left Harry with a feeling of drawn exhaustion. If he hadn’t already been seated, he thought his legs would have folded beneath him.

Narcissa eased towards Draco’s side, lowering herself onto the high mattress of the bed. Her own concern, though nearly as profound as her son’s, held a sort of clinical detachedness, calculating but not necessarily heartless. When Draco eventually removed his hand from Harry’s face, shifting his grasp to clasp both hands around the Harry’s trembling fingers, his mother finally spoke.

‘I am sorry for what I said. Would you perhaps tell me what upset you?’

Harry was silent, avoiding Narcissa’s questioning gaze with fixed staring at his own knees from. Now that the distress was died, and weariness replaced panic, he began to feel the rising discomfort of humiliation. How ungrateful, to respond as such to an innocent offer of support. He hunched his shoulders further.

‘Harry?’

It was Draco that spoke. Harry could not fathom the reason why, exactly, he felt unable to resist the request from his friend, but something in Draco’s tone drew his gaze. The grey eyes that met his own were faintly pleading, but above all concerned. It was apparent that he only wanted to know so he could help Harry.

‘I-I…am always supposed to wear them. My glasses. When I’m around… people.’ He swallowed, tongue gagging his throat uncomfortably.

Narcissa frowned. ‘Around people? Not simply because you needed to for your eyesight.’ She paused and her frown deepened measurably. ‘Was it perhaps your uncle that told you to do this?’

Still muted, Harry only nodded, dropping his chin to avoid both Malfoy’s gazes. He didn’t miss in his periphery the way Draco’s face turned slightly towards his mother, however, nor the audible squeak as his jaw tightening further. Narcissa, however, remained entirely composed aside from the frown, even if her face was somewhat more rigid than before.

‘I told you, Harry, that you do not have to do anything you do not wish to anymore. But, if you feel uncomfortable, then we shall simply purchase you a new pair of glasses. Eye healing is not particularly difficult to remedy, especially in children and young people still growing physically, but if you would be more comfortable then I’m sure it can be arranged.’ She paused, her frown becoming considering. ‘I think it would be best, however, if we waited until you were perhaps a little more rested before visiting a specialist. An... optometrist, yes? A Muggle eye doctor?’

Harry turned and stared at Narcissa, unable to supress his incredulity. Most wizards, especially purebloods so deeply ingrained in their own culture, didn’t seem to have even rudimentary knowledge of Muggle facilities and services, replacing just about everything they possibly could with magic. Harry had expected Narcissa to be the same.

The witch, evidently understanding the source of his surprise, smiled slightly. ‘The Wizarding world does not have eye _doctors_ as such, but specialists do for the production of spectacles for medical purposes. Eyeglasses are still used in some cases, more for cosmetic purposes than medical, admittedly, but mostly in instances of financial difficulty. I thought you may perhaps be more comfortable with a Muggle doctor. Though, I suppose, I could simply take a reading.’

Harry only nodded in reply, unsure of the meaning of her last comment. A lump sat heavily in his throat and no matter how much he swallowed it wouldn’t dislodge. Narcissa had nodded slightly to herself, as though reaching a decision, before resuming her tests. She carried a professional efficiency in her carriage that eradicated all trace of the humiliating incident of moments before. The tests didn’t take long, and he didn’t feel anything. Only Draco’s hands, clasped tightly around his own, indicated the fright he had taken.

It took five days before the routine was broken. By this point, even Harry, naturally sedate and well practiced at enduring periods of endless stillness and idleness, was itching to break the monotony. It was nearing nightfall when Narcissa dropped by the room for an afternoon visit. At this point, she was dropping by twice a day, always leaving with a faint touch on the head that Draco only quirked an eyebrow at questioningly. Harry wasn’t concerned with his confusion. The soft, gentle touch had become familiar, almost welcome; it was the first he had ever had of such aside from Draco’s. True, he doubted that if Narcissa suggested instead that she throw her arms around him in a hug that he could assure her he would be able to suppress writhing in a twisting attempt to free himself, if not simply freeze in horrified immobility, but just the touch was fine.

That evening, Narcissa walked in on the boys sitting cross-legged facing from one another over a chessboard. Harry had never played before; he’d never learned how, nor had anyone to play with had he known. Draco professed his disbelief with exaggerated gestures of open-mouthed horror at the prospect, before demanding just how exactly, with both Ron and Blaise as his friends, he had dodged that bludger so neatly. He then proceeded to stride from Harry’s room before returning moments later with a very fine chess board and incredibly detailed pieces that looked architecturally designed in their precision. Hours had passed since they had fallen into the throughs of chess mastery and Harry had reached the conclusion that he was hardly the strategist to play with any real adequacy.

Narcissa smiled at them both as they simultaneously turned their heads. ‘Teaching the skills of strategy, my love?’

Draco smiled with preening pride. ‘Of course. What better way to hone one’s mind.’

‘Indeed.’ The mirroring smile on Narcissa’s face was identical to her son’s. She turned towards Harry. ‘You are looking well. I had expected to find you sleeping.’

Harry shook his head. He was past the embarrassment that accompanied the assumption that he needed to sleep more often than a toddler. ‘No, ma’am. I’m much better at staying awake into the afternoon now. I don’t even really feel tired anymore until late.’

‘Narcissa, dear, call me Narcissa.’ The witch tapped her chin as she absentmindedly corrected him. ‘Well, if you are feeling better, perhaps you would like to accompany us to dinner tonight? In the dining hall for once?’

Harry froze warily at the suggestion. It was not the prospect of dinner, by any stretch, but the company that was insinuated with the invitation. Draco he was comfortable with – almost too comfortable – and Narcissa he had warmed to remarkably over the past week. Lucius Malfoy, however, remained an unseen presence in the house. Something that still irked Draco to no end. ‘Dine…with you?’

‘Yes. It will only be an informal dinner, nothing particularly decorative.’

Harry turned unseeingly back towards the chessboard. _Informal? Do people actually truly have formal dinners these days in their own houses?_ He was tempted to turn down the offer, but was all too aware that such a response was both ungrateful and unkind in itself. ‘Um… w-would Mr. Malfoy be there?’ He nearly cringed at the bluntness of his own words.

Narcissa sighed with uncharacteristic heaviness. ‘Harry, my husband is many things, but contrary to public belief he is neither a cruel nor a cold man. Please do not take his lack of visitation personally. He had been distracted with his thoughts of recent weeks and rarely leaves his study. The invitation to dinner was as much his request as my own. Though I feel he is a little concerned with the marked lack of his own son’s presence at the dining table; Draco seems to have decided a pillowed table is more adequate than one made of wood.’

Draco simply tilted his nose at his mother’s suggestion, though didn’t deny it. Harry, on the other hand, felt himself flush at the thought that Lucius was annoyed he was monopolising his son. That more than anything made the decision for him. ‘Then, please, I would be happy to.’

‘Harry, you don’t have to I you don’t want to. Really, Father shouldn’t be expecting you on your feet so soon anyway.’

‘No, it’s alright, Draco.’ Harry glanced from Narcissa back to the blonde boy. ‘Besides, I have to agree with your father; a wooden table probably is more appropriate to dine at. I wouldn’t want to deprive you.’

Narcissa chuckled softly, not the least due to Draco’s repeated tipping of nose and pompous sniff. ‘Then I shall set dinner for seven o’clock. Is that satisfactory?’

‘Of course. Thank you.’

Which found the two boys descending the three staircases to the ground floor at five minutes to seven. Harry had not beheld the rest of the manor, save for the few halls he had wandered through just after waking. It was not that he had been confined to his rooms, but simply that everything was provided for him. Including company, and Draco seemed to find himself more than comfortable propped on ridiculously well-stuffed pillows throughout the day. It was funny how well he seemed to fit into the luxurious setting. As such, it was the first time Harry truly got to appreciate the décor without a cloud of fear hanging over him. He was quite comfortable in realising that the high-strung nervousness that had gripped him since Hogwarts had dissipated somewhat. Not entirely, to be sure, and he felt a degree of nervousness at meeting Lucius, but it was nonetheless markedly decreased.

The residence was furnished in traditional Parisian style; high ceilings with intricate cornices, small, delicate candles flickering in delicate, iron-wrought sconces of twisted coils. Pale walls and floor-to-ceiling windows wide and evenly spaced, framed in white curtains that hung loosely on either side, framing a misty view onto large gardens of pristine lawns, shorn hedges and a stepping-stone trail for giants that led towards a fountain in the distance. The gardens were a sprawling vastness and the manor designed just so that the silent greenery could be seen from every window.

‘Did you want to go outside tomorrow?’

Harry turned towards Draco, who watched him intently, eyes flickering towards the window. ‘Hmm?’

‘Mother actually inviting you from your room is the equivalent of her loosening you from her clutches.’

‘I don’t think ‘clutches’ is the right term-‘

‘Oh, but it is. You just don’t realise it.’ Draco flashed a toothy smile; he’d been doing that more often lately. It was nice to see and immediately made Harry feel lighter. ‘But regardless of turn-of-phrase, what do you think?’

Harry glanced once more out the window before shrugging towards Draco. ‘Sure. If you’d like.’

Letting out an exaggerated sigh, Draco pinned Harry with a mock glare. ‘It’s not about what I want. You’re the guest here. It’s entirely you’re decision.’

Had Harry been able to, he would have smiled. It was with regret that, no matter how much he wanted to and regardless of how much his emotions seemed to desire to dance across his face as if it were a stage, he couldn’t quite coax as much onto his lips. He settled for shrugging another shoulder. ‘Okay. I’d like to see them.’

‘It’s settled then.’ Draco smiled satisfactorily, striding with more purpose down the long, white hall, tugging Harry behind him with loosely held fingers. Harry wouldn’t admit it aloud, but the fact that Draco never questioned either his bursts of uncontrollable emotion or his distinct lack of appropriate responses was more heart-warming than he could express. Almost without thought he hastened into step beside Draco, nearly brushing against his friend’s side. In stark contrast to his previous inability to withstand contact, simply being close to the other boy seemed to warm him as though he huddled beside a fireplace. Draco tipped his lips in another easy grin as he noted the motion, bumping his shoulder gently against Harry’s but otherwise leaving it unacknowledged.

Stepping into the dining room would have been more impressive if the people already seated in there had been less so. A chandelier, of all things, hung from the roof over the very centre of a circular table of polished maple. Matching chairs with creamy cushioning and high backs ringed the circumference, more chairs than was strictly necessary, and each stationed with precise distancing from their fellows. Along the walls of the room were matching glass-faced cabinets, similarly polished to a shine and bedecked in lace runners and glass vases of pale flowers. Seated above were a smattering of paintings, each oddly mobile in the way of Wizarding pictures, with flowers swaying lightly in the breeze and faceless figures wandering lazily over mown grass.

Far more impressive, however, were the two Malfoys seated directly across from the door, side by side. Contrary to Narcissa’s statement of the informality of their dining, both were elegantly garbed in dark, high-necked dress robes that fit them like a second skin. Not a hair was out of place and somehow the rigidity of their posture held that same regal bearing that Harry had first encountered rather than leaving him with the suspicion of self-induced backaches. Harry tried not to stare at Lucius, at the long-haired, expressionless countenance and studying gaze that seemed to pin him like a moth on an entomologist’s board. It was easier to busy himself with following Draco’s lead.

Draco, barely acknowledged his parents with a tilt of his head, turned to Harry and leading him to the table. They dropped into chairs opposite the elder witch and wizard, leaving two empty seats on either side of them. Draco resolutely ignored his father, nodding to his mother before turning towards Harry with faint, comforting smile. Harry was beginning to wonder if the response was as much an avoidance of his father than any offer of comfort on his part.

‘Perfect timing. Shall we?’ Narcissa broke the silence, mellow as ever. She seemed utterly comfortable in the otherwise awkward tension.

Conjured by her words, a trio of house elves scuttled into the room, laden dishes hovering in the air behind them. They were placed upon the table with barely a clink, steam wafting from bowls of creamy pumpkin soup garnished with cream and a scattering of shredded herbs. Without further ado, the meal began.

It was informal in a very formal way. That was the only way Harry could consider it. Meal times had never been an ‘event’ for Harry; at the Dursely, he was secluded from the dining room or forced to eat after everyone else had departed from the table. His uncle had rarely eaten at the table at all, choosing instead to slouch in a couch and pick at take-away and leaving Harry to dine in solitude. When he had first come to Hogwarts, he had eaten alone; his breakfast, lunch and dinner had been provided for him by, as Professor McGonagall had stated, the school’s house elves. He had always eaten in utter solitude.

Hence, when the combined efforts of Draco and Hermione had dragged him into dining with them in the Great Hall, it was a shock to the consistency of his quiet isolation. He had never had much of an appetite, but the thought of eating in front of someone else drove any consideration of food from his mind. Only the persistent coaxing of his fellows had encouraged him to even pick at his food. It had become marginally easier with practice, but he doubted it would ever be comfortable. Or at least, not for a long time.

Dinner with the Malfoys was entirely different again. Not the utter silence of solitude, nor the animated raucousness of Hogwarts mealtimes, but instead the father, mother and son ate in silence but not unaware of one another. There was a thickness in the air that insinuated acknowledgement without the need for words. It was a phenomenon that Harry had never witnessed before and as such left him uneasy. He was uncomfortable enough that withholding from fidgeting was a challenge, and made more so by the fact that he appeared to be the only one ill at ease.

Not a word was spoken throughout the entrée – a specification that Harry only realised when a plate of roasted beef, potatoes and vegetables in gravy, replaced his half-eaten bowl. He paused for a moment, nervously chewing his lip and gazing at the imposing plateful. He didn’t think he could stomach it, but it would be rude to refuse to eat, wouldn’t it?

Queasiness began to roil in his stomach, making the prospect of food even worse. He was just resisting the urge to raise a hand to pick nervously collarbones when a warm furriness coiled around his ankles. Immediately the urge quelled slightly, enough for him to urge his hands to clasp one another on his lap. How did Lyssy always know when he needed her? He was long past attempting to determine exactly why her presence helped so much. It just did.

‘You are not hungry, Harry?’

He had been so caught on maintaining his silence and composure that Harry hadn’t realised that the other three diners had finished their meal to varying levels of completion. He shifted uneasily in his seat before shaking his head slightly at Narcissa’s query. ‘Sorry.’

‘There is no need to apologise. I was merely querying.’ The slight quirk of her eyebrow spoke otherwise; Harry suspected the woman to be the main driver of his abundance of meals. ‘I suppose even our deemed informality is daunting to you.’

Harry nodded. ‘I never really had anything by way of a formal dinner before. I don’t really know how I’m supposed to comport myself.’

The smile on Narcissa’s face was that odd expression he couldn’t quite fathom; not quite pitying, as it wasn’t so derogatory, but something similar. ‘Yes, well, at this point in the meal, we break convention slightly in order to dispel the growing awkwardness of extended silence.’ Her smile became slightly rueful, as though reprimanding the formulaic procedure of their mealtime. Narcissa raised an eyebrow at Draco as though seeking agreement, though he only nodded his head knowingly in reply. Lucius remained stoically mute. ‘To begin with, Draco, you received an owl from Pansy Parkinson earlier this evening. It was ribboned in blue, so I believe is of moderate urgency.’

Draco sighed heavily, with exaggerated resignation. ‘Mother, Pansy’s idea of urgency differs vastly from my own. It most likely regards the somewhat challenging assignment we received for Ancient Runes over the break. Of which I have already informed her I have no inclination of assisting her with.’

‘Ah, but is that the proper way to treat a lady friend?’

‘In this century, Mother, undoubtedly. She’ll thank me for it in the future.’

‘Perhaps you would see to replying to her, however? Remember that I requested you enquire into her cousin’s health? Andrea’s nephew was struggling with colic last heard.’

‘How you even know that is beyond me mother. And I thought it was Perseus’ nephew.’

‘No, definitely Andrea’s. Barely two months old, poor dear. Recall, Draco, that I have a knack for remembering as much. Such which evidently lack, my love.’

Mother and son proceeded into a discussion of the Parkinson inter-familial relationships, each commenting condescendingly on the other’s standing point with too much affection and too many half-concealed smiles for them to really be biting. Harry watched the banter as he would a tennis match, fingers trailing over the side of his seat unconsciously for Lyssy to bat her head against. It was only when he dropped a glance to the floor briefly and looked back up again that he noticed he was the subject of Lucius Malfoy’s attention.

The blonde man had a hardness to him that Draco didn’t. Besides his height, the paleness of the hair and the colour of his eyes, Harry thought that his friend bore a closer resemblance to his mother. Lucius lacked the fine cracks in his expressionless façade that Draco demonstrated, those that allowed Harry glean an insight into his thoughts even through his concealed expressions. The older man was a picture of cool aloofness, and seemed to look down his nose slightly as he stared at him across the table.

However, Harry found that his wariness warred with his curiosity of the man. He had suspected to feel fear rising once more upon confronting the wraith-like presence of the Malfoy patriarch, and his first impression assured him that no other response was acceptable. But closer study revealed that, truly, the man was not quite fearsome. Narcissa had been more intimidating, with her forwardness and the bluntness of her words. Lucius was simply a presence; intimidating, perhaps, but Harry felt that actions spoke louder than detached silences. The latter he was far more familiar with from his own experiences.

Lucius evidently realised he had become the focus of attention and so dropped the thinly veiled act of concealing his own observations. He stared directly at Harry, and a flicker of something crossing his eyes bespoke a similar curiosity to that which Harry felt. _Well, maybe he’s not so more unreadable than Draco after all._

The continued conversation between Draco and Narcissa, rising in volume with their animation – something about a barn owl and someone named Wilson Madrow – effectively excluded Lucius and Harry from participation. Perhaps not intentionally, but so was the result. Harry wasn’t one to interrupt, and from what he had seen of Lucius since entering the dining hall, the other man wasn’t either. Lucius seemed to take it upon himself to remedy the issue of their assumed roles as spectators.

‘You must forgive me not visiting you upon arrival. I had not deemed it…ah…appropriate given my current considerations.’ The man’s voice was low and deep, pitched to carry only to Harry who was separated from him by only the two empty chairs. It carried a rich quality, like the thrum of a bass. And all of a sudden, the faint, lingering worries over Lucius’s aloofness eased. The man was, if anything, simply a more practiced version of Draco. So practiced that for a moment Harry had not realised the man beneath the mask.

Shrugging, Harry dropped his voice similarly to keep the conversation between the two of them. ‘No forgiveness if necessary, sir. I’m the one benefitting from your hospitality. It should be me asking your forgiveness.’

Again, the hardness of his face remained unaltered, but a flicker of something skittered once more across his eyes. Satisfaction? The man leaned forward slightly in his seat, white-blond hair slipping over his shoulders. It was longer even than Harry’s. ‘Even so, Narcissa has informed me of your continued recovery. I am glad to hear of it.’

‘Thank you, sir.’

‘To put it bluntly, Harry, I have my reasons for considering a confrontation between us. If you would allow me to explain myself?’

Well, it certainly was blunt. Almost rudely to the point. Yet Harry appreciated the directness, even if it did leave him a little uneasy. He bobbed his head briefly, nodding. Lucius opened his mouth, paused, then spoke.

‘I am not sure if you are aware, but the actions you undertook towards my son at the end of your most recent school term were… unexpected, to say the least.’

Harry felt his heart sink in his chest. Oh. So this is what it was about. It really was something terrible. I should have known, I saw Draco’s face. He was horrified. It wouldn’t just die down into nothingness. Harry swallowed a sickly taste that swelled in his mouth and lathered his tongue, trying to shrug the rising tension from his shoulders. To his left Draco chuckled with barely maintained reserve before offering an enquiry to his mother. Still Wilson Madrow?

‘Please, let me allay any fears you may hold.’ Lucius raised a hand as though physically quelling Harry’s nerves. His face remained blank but the gesture bespoke the expressions he suppressed. Harry was startled by the gesture, as he had been so often over the past few days when Narcissa and Draco seemed to read his expressions like they would a book. Lucius was evidently the same. The realisation didn’t help to ease his tension. ‘What Draco wore upon his arm was a brand of sorts, a mark of ownership from a very powerful and very dangerous man. The branding was involuntary on my son’s part, but even so, such removal could indicate a certain disloyalty that is unacceptable.’

As Lucius spoke, low and intense, a different kind of weight settled itself in Harry’s chest. There was the worry, the concern and the wave of guilt that nearly drowned him as he considered exactly the extent of what he had done. It was foolish. He didn’t even know in the moment what drove him to act as such. But something else, some dark heat beneath his ribcage that throbbed and pulsed, like a growling monster. It felt…it was almost like… _No, I haven’t been… I don’t think I’ve ever been angry in my life._

Harry didn’t even think the emotion was possible for him to experience, but then how else would he describe it? Something within him bared it’s teeth with an almost frightening aggression, made him want to wrap his arms around his friend and draw him from the possessive handcuffs of this ‘powerful and dangerous’ man. What right did that man, any man, have to so control his friend? Especially involuntarily.

‘Does that make you angry?’

For the second time in their brief conversation, Harry was reminded of his inability to conceal his emotions. They seemed to play themselves across his face for anyone who cared to witness. Not that, at that moment, Harry cared particularly. ‘I think so, sir.’

Lucius cocked his head, considering. ‘What an odd response.’

‘This man, sir. Who is he?’

‘Simply – or perhaps not simply at all – a very dangerous and powerful man.’

‘Perhaps _the_ dangerous and powerful man, sir?’

For a moment, Harry wasn’t sure if the older wizard even breathed. He stared at Harry intently, as one would a curious and potentially dangerous artefact. A faint huff of humourless laugh moments later dispelled any fears of asphyxiation. ‘For one who, Draco assures me, knows little to nothing about Wizarding culture, I admit to being impressed. You are smarter than I gave credit for, Mr. Potter.’

‘You credit intelligence, sir?’

Another laugh whispered from Lucius’ lips, though tinged with cynicism this time. ‘It is a personal fault, perhaps, that I always underestimate until I am proven otherwise.’

Nodding understanding, Harry dropping his eyes to his lap. He wasn’t surprised to see Lyssy curled up on his knees; he hadn’t even felt her climb up there, but it happened so often that he barely considered it anymore. It was only the faint pointed amusement in the little cat’s eyes – her strangely knowing, _human_ eyes - that alerted him to the backhanded compliment the man had given him. And the similarly backhanded self-criticism. ‘Thank you, sir.’

‘It was hardly a compliment.’ The man rebuffed with a sniff of his nose that, despite the lack of flush, Harry knew for embarrassment for the resemblance to Draco. His amusement at the realisation died, however, as he considered the man’s words once more.

‘What will happen, sir? Since Draco… since I removed the brand? What will happen?’

‘Therein lies our difficulty.’ Leaning further forwards in his seat, Lucius stared at him intently. ‘The brand is a chain to Him. With its removal, my son has more freedom than he has been afforded in months, as he is no longer magically bound. However, this freedom comes at a price, and this price will be paid in blood should our actions be discovered.

‘It is for this reason, an attempt to distance ourselves from the man himself, that we have ventured into France. As of yet, we have reached no solution to our problem.’

Harry frowned, considering the man’s words. He was a little surprised, to say the least, that Lucius had confided as much in him as he had. The man was obviously cunning and intelligent; why would he offer as much information as he already had?

His brow smoothed as realisation set in. ‘How could I help, sir?’

For the first time, a smile tinged Lucius’ mouth. ‘Credit is well given, I believe.’ The satisfaction was back in his eyes, illuminating their darkness like a candle in a shuttered room. ‘Harry, I believe you have a close affiliation with Albus Dumbledore?’

‘Father, stop.’

Both Harry and Lucius turned towards the source of the vicious words. Draco, for all his attempts at composure, was positively seething with anger. His lips drew back slightly and a glare hardened his features into coldness. Harry frowned worriedly; Draco got angry only slightly more than Harry did – or at least let himself appear to. Such a display showed such a degree of distress that it was concerning. Narcissa, a frown on her own brow, seemed to mirror the sentiment.

‘Draco, be silent. I am doing what-’

‘I don’t care what it is you think you are doing. I’m not dragging Harry into this. He’s helped more than we can possibly say by simply removing the Dark Mark in the first place. I’m not going to ask anything further of him, and neither will you.’

Harry wondered for a moment if Draco really believed he had succeeded in silencing his father. The determined set of his chin indicated so, but Lucius’s raised eyebrow spoke of a father facing the stubborn immaturity of a pre-schooler.

‘I am doing what is best for you, Draco, in the only way I see possible-’

‘By dragging a friend into the midst and potentially setting him up as a target for a manic Dark Lord who may or may not still want him dead?’

The words didn’t really register with Harry. Still? He supposed Draco was likely caught in the heat of the moment, but the blonde wasn’t one to lose his head and blather nonsense. He felt is frown deepen, in consideration as well as concern.

‘He will remain anonymous if we play our hands right. For your protection-’

‘I won’t risk Harry for my own protection.’

‘And the protection of your mother and myself. I believe there is no other choice.’

The words shattered Draco’s flushed anger as though it had been knocked out cleanly from beneath him. The faint pink flush died from his cheeks and the glare with it. ‘You think you will both be in danger too? You said he wouldn’t come after you.’

‘There is always a possibility, Draco.’ Lucius had returned to his hard aloofness, though his eyes bespoke a sadness that contrasted the expressionlessness and rendered it a fallacy. ‘But it is your protection we are most concerned for. Not only because of the task you have been given – as task which, at this point, we simply cannot allow to be fulfilled – but because of the absence of your mark. Traitors to the Dark Lord look hopefully towards a clean death, but it is rarely afforded them.’

The actual naming of the puppet-master pulling the strings, even though Harry had already suspected as much, sent a cold chill trickling down his spine. Draco, and Narcissa and Lucius it seemed, were embroiled in something much deeper and more dangerous than he could have imagined when he simply sought to remove a strangely shaped tattoo from his friend’s arm. He felt his hands unconsciously seek out Lyssy’s head, then Draco’s hand, sinking his fingers into the warmth both provided.

Draco turned towards him, a sad smile barely curling his lips. ‘I guess now you finally know.’

Harry nodded, holding his friend’s gaze for a moment more before turning back to Lucius. ‘What can I do?’

He felt Draco’s long fingers grasp his more firmly, clenching them as though seeking to draw him back, but he ignored the pressure, locking eyes with the elder Malfoy to the exclusion of his worried friend and the silent Narcissa.

Lucius closed his eyes momentarily. It could have been a prayer, a gesture of thanks, or even a pause to rest sore eyes for all Harry knew. ‘The only solution is to seek the protection of Albus Dumbledore. As head of the resistance that opposes the Dark Lord, he is our only hope for making a clean cut from the chains that bind our family to him.’

‘Are you…?’ Harry paused, unsure if he was being forward in making the assumption. Still, if Draco had been branded and his parents were likely bound, they undoubtedly carried marks of their own. ‘Can I perhaps try and remove your brand also?’

The smile, free of cynicism this time, twitched on Lucius’s lips once more. ‘Most kind of you, Mr. Potter, but priorities are priorities. And, as it so happens, one of the most likely sources of bargaining chips between the leader of the resistance and myself lies in my role as an informant. I can hardly provide such information if I so blatantly claim disloyalty to my Master.’ The man hissed the term with positive venom. Evidently, any fear that he may have felt for his superior was on par if not diminished entirely by his loathing.

‘You hope to bargain? Then why do you need me?’

‘Dumbledore will hardly believe the words of a Death Eater, especially one so newly reformed. That is where you come in.’

Glancing up towards Draco, who hadn’t looked away from him for a moment, Harry caught the pleading look in his eye. For all Draco spat in anger and glared at his father, for all he claimed he didn’t want Harry involved any further, he was desperate. Desperate for his family’s sake, Harry realised. The plea warred with his guilt and swirled a whirlpool of sadness in his eyes.

There was truly no doubt in Harry’s mind of his reply. He cared for Draco, perhaps more than anyone else in the world, and his affection for Narcissa grew stronger every day. He barely knew Lucius, but the guarded love he expressed for his family and that returned by both wife and son was enough to warrant offering assistance.

‘Of course I will help. I’m not sure how much good it’ll do – it’s not like I’m particularly close to Professor Dumbledore – but I’ll do anything I can.’

All three Malfoys seemed to slump slightly in their seats at his words. Not truly slump – he couldn’t picture any of them doing something so undignified – but there was a definite easing of tension. Narcissa captured his eye and smiled with a sad warmth and utter gratitude. ‘Thank you.’

Nodding, slightly embarrassed by the woman’s sincerity, he turned his attention back towards Lucius. ‘When did you want to try and meet with the Professor?’

‘I had hoped to contact him at the initiation of the new school term, but-’

‘Sooner is better, Lucius. We should approach him beforehand, as soon as possible.’ Narcissa was resolute in her words, firm and commanding. Harry would have agreed to it in a heartbeat if she had suggested as much to him.

‘Such would not be wise, Narcissa. At least allowing Draco time to settle back in to his classes to draw eyes from any abnormal activity, away from harm-’

‘But if we gain his protection before the term resumes, then it limits the danger imposed by our continued isolation. You know this, Lucius. Why do you fight me so?’

The elder wizard sighed, closing his eyes briefly once more. When he opened them, his eyes flickered to Harry and Draco across the table. ‘This is not a topic that need be debated over a dinner table. Harry has agreed to help; he does not need to be inflicted with the finer points of the process. Nor does Draco.’ The unspoken words, that they would continue the discussion in privacy, went without saying.

Narcissa reluctantly conceded, bowing her head but keeping her eyes firmly upon her husband. As if they had been awaiting a break in the conversation, the doors to the dining room swung inwards once more and the trio of house elves entered, carrying bowls and plates of an assortment of fruits, puddings and ice-cream.

Harry tried, he truly did, but he couldn’t stomach more than a few pieces of fruit. The conversation, not to mention the entrée, sat heavily in his gut, the wispy remnants of his Anger still bubbling through his veins. Nobody seemed to mind particularly, however, as not a one ate much more than he did.

At eight o’clock, the dishes disappeared in the hands of the silent house elves. Narcissa rose moments after the trotting servants disappeared with their crockery, staring pointedly towards Lucius before rounding the table to Harry and Draco.

‘Good night, my love.’ She pecked a kiss on the side of Draco’s forehead, which he withstood admirably and even patted her arm in return. Narcissa then turned towards Harry, her hand drawn to and placed softly upon his head as though it was a natural and expected response. ‘Good night to you too, Harry dear. Thank you.’

Without another word, she swept from the room, dress robes fluttering in her wake impressively. Lucius rose moments later, slowly, as though dreading the coming meeting. Harry couldn’t blame him. For all of her kindness, he got the impression that Narcissa Malfoy was something of a force to be reckoned with.

‘Good evening, Draco. Harry, it was a pleasure to meet you.’ He pause a moment, in the process of drawing something that appeared to be a shortened cane with a silver snakehead from his pocket. A flick of his wrist and the short, polished ebony slithered out sinuously like a coiling snake to a full-length cane before hardening once more. Harry could have sworn that the head hissed, but chose to ignore the fact, instead meeting Lucius’ gaze once more. ‘You may not fully understand just what you have done for us,’ he paused again, a dry smile twitching his lips, ‘or perhaps you do. Credit is given where credit is due.’ The man huffed his odd little a laugh before stalking after his wife, robes fluttering though not quite as impressively as Narcissa’s.

Draco, hand still wrapped around Harry’s, gave his fingers a faint squeeze. He peered at him for a moment with an unreadable expression before speaking. ‘Want to head back upstairs?’ Harry only nodded in reply.

Draco led the way back to the guest room afforded to Harry. He didn’t speak since they departed the dining hall, which was remarkable in itself given his propensity for constant verbalisation, but Harry could tell by the tension in the back of his neck that it was not for want of something to think of.

Easing open the door to Harry’s room – their room, if Harry was to be honest; the blonde was in there as much as he was – Draco immediately slumped down into the armchair with a heavy sigh. Harry folded himself onto the end of the mattress before him, silent observing the play of emotions across his face. Even with the slight distance between them, Harry could feel the faint warmth radiating from his friend.

‘Well, that was more intense than I expected a dinner conversation to be.’

Harry nodded, more to give some sort of a reply than in agreement. He wasn’t familiar enough with dinner conversation to comment on his expectations. ‘What do you think you’ll do?’

Draco shrugged, peering down at his fingernails in false nonchalance. It was so obviously a façade that Harry wondered why he even bothered to do so. Habit? ‘I suppose it is more father’s decision than my own. I think your suggestion is valid, though.’

‘I’m not sure that your father feels the same.’

Shaking his head, Draco finally turned to look at Harry directly. ‘If he had honestly disagreed, you’d have known it. He probably would have given you some scathing remark that would induce equal amounts of affront and mortification.’ He smirked. ‘He’s good at those.’

‘Where you get it from, then?’

Both Harry and Draco started in shock at the jibe Harry’s words. Harry dropped his chin to avoid the smirk spreading across Draco’s face. He honestly hadn’t meant to say it aloud.

‘Good.’

‘What?’

Draco shrugged. ‘You haven’t been speaking as much as you normally would. It’s nice to hear that you’re actually voicing your thoughts again.’

‘I didn’t mean to be rude-’

‘I know. That’s why I didn’t give you a thorough scolding for it.’ The grin widened as satisfaction twinkled in his eyes. ‘Besides, the mind needs wit the same way a plant needs sun. Food for the soul and all.’

‘I think you just made that up.’ Harry couldn’t hide the faint amusement in his tone. Draco was so endearingly insufferable when he acted pompous. The blonde laughed in reply, nodding without embarrassment, and tapped Harry gently with his shoulder. They subsided into silence once more, the humour lightening the mood but not entirely eradicating the tension of dinner.

‘You know,’ Draco paused, letting his head drop onto the couch and slumping in a slouch that somehow still seemed elegant. ‘I almost can’t wait to get back to Hogwarts this year. I usually love the Christmas break – being with mother and father and all – but everything’s so different this year.’

He seemed almost to be muttering to himself, but Harry nodded, in real agreement this time. Though he had always preferred – overwhelmingly preferred – term period to the holidays, this year was different. Hogwarts was different. Rather than an escape from home, he could honestly claim that he was looking forward to going back.

‘I wonder how Neville and Hermione and the rest of them are doing?’

Draco huffed a breath of laughter. ‘Hermione? Definitely studying. And Neville? Probably with Ron already, would be my guess.’ He turned towards Harry, a contemplative expression on his face. ‘You could write them, you know. We have owls.’

Harry shook his head. ‘I wouldn’t even know what to say.’

‘Well then, I’ll help you. It’s not too hard; easier, even, than speaking in conversation. You don’t have to try to talk through their interruption.’ He paused, a long-suffering expression taking over from his fond eagerness to help. ‘I suppose I’ll have to write to Pansy. She’d probably want to know you’re staying here, not to mention knowing the address to send her gifts. I don’t think she’d even know where to send yours, otherwise.’

The words froze in the passage of Harry’s ears as they registered. All of a sudden, an entirely unexpected coldness gripped him. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Well, Pansy is a bit of a busy-body, in case you haven’t noticed. She always likes to know just about every-’

‘N-no, not that. What did you mean about gifts?’ His voice had hushed, yet rose slightly in pitch with his near panic.

Draco eyed him worriedly, frowning. ‘What do you mean? What, you mean about…’ Understanding dawned on him. ‘Harry, do you not exchange gifts with your…? No, I don’t really suppose you would. Sorry, I- I shouldn’t have assumed.’

Stuttering sounded strange coming from Draco, and it was that more than anything that allowed Harry the presence of mind to choke out an explanation. ‘M-my uncle, even when I stayed with my family in England, w-we never exchanged gifts. They didn’t, we didn’t have the sort of relationship for that.’

‘Look, Harry, it’s no big deal. Don’t worry about it. I doubt any of them really expected anything-’

‘Because they don’t really see me like that? Is that what usually happens? Won’t they hate me for not sending them something?’

Draco’s own discomfort seemed to be growing with Harry’s distress, but Harry only registered it detachedly. He felt a queasiness rise within him, his babbling thoughts nearly drowning out Draco’s words. ‘No, it’s not like that. Don’t even think that, how could they hate you for not sending a gift? And it would be natural for them to get you a gift. I’m just saying, given you live overseas and all-’

‘But you just said Pansy would send something. Why wouldn’t I? Does that make me a terrible person? I didn’t think they would like me enough to even think about gifts, let alone-’

‘Harry, calm down! Merlin…’ Draco appeared nearly as frazzled as Harry by his mindless stuttering. Truthfully, Harry hardly noticed that either. He was not one to run his mouth thoughtlessly, but the thought of his kind, caring classmates coming to dislike him had triggered a different kind of distress to any he had felt before. _I don’t want them to hate me. What if they hate me? That would be- it would be horrible! I can’t, I can’t make them hate me-_

An arm curled around his shoulders and Harry was dragged suddenly into Draco’s side in a comforting embrace. He hadn’t even noticed when his friend slipped onto the mattress beside him. Lyssy, having followed them from the dining room, settled on his other side and pressed herself firmly against his leg.

With an effort, Harry clamped his jaws shut, teeth clicking audibly, and pressed his lips together to still their quivering. He had never experienced the likes before, a different kind of fear to that from intimidation and possessiveness. So different as to be opposite, in fact. He wanted, no, needed the affection of his school friends. To lose that would just be more than he could stand.

Draco wrapped his other arm around Harry, locking him more firmly into his side so that the Harry was nearly sitting on top him. ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to upset you. Really, no one will mind an ounce about gifts. If you’re worried, you could just write to them, you know. I’m sure they’d like to just hear from you. Especially Hermione and Pansy.’ He chuckled, the deep vibrations thrumming from his chest. ‘You seem to have gotten yourself two mother hens, there.’

Harry mumbled unintelligibly in reply before raising his voice to be heard. ‘I’ve never written a letter before. I don’t think I could do it justice.’

Seemingly at a loss at the statement, Draco simply gave Harry a gentle squeeze, conveying affection if not offering a solution through their contact. Harry was content to let his distress sink into a dejected sadness until Draco started slightly.

‘Well, if you really want to get them a gift, why don’t we go shopping tomorrow? I’ve never been to _Rue des Merveilles_ , but I’ve heard it’s better even than Diagon Alley.’

The confidence of Draco’s tone, complete satisfaction that he had presented an adequate solution to their problem, quelled the lingering discomfort and nausea enough for Harry to consider his words. He peered up at his friend, raising an eyebrow. Draco grinned down upon him. ‘ _Rue des Merveilles_? The Street of Wonders? What is that?’

‘Pretentious, right? And you just had to upstage me with the accent, don’t you?’ Draco’s smile took the sting out of his words. ‘It’s basically the French equivalent of Diagon Alley, thought it’s supposed to be much more extravagant. I’m not sure where it is exactly, but father will undoubtedly know. I’ll ask him if he’ll come with us tomorrow. Mother and father don’t like leaving the house during the day, but if it’s just for a few hours, and just this once, then it should be alright. Besides, I’d like to get an engraving done for mother’s pendant.’

Harry sighed. He wasn’t entirely confident with the idea; he’d never heard of any _Rue des Merveilles_ , but then he had not believed in a world of magic until a little over half a year ago. Magic itself, of course he’d known about that, but that others could use it? And they had their own society? He wasn’t surprised by much any more.

‘That would be… wonderful.’ He noted the irony of the statement with a faint snort. ‘Thanks, Draco, but it doesn’t really help.’

‘And why is that?’

‘In case you haven’t noticed, it’s only two days until Christmas.’

‘Of course I’ve noticed. I count down the days from one Christmas to the next every year. Always have, and always will. I still don’t see the problem.’

Harry bit his lip to hide his amusement. Draco seemed completely comfortable in his display of immaturity. ‘Well, even if we did get gifts, there’s still the problem of actually sending them to them.’

‘Which is, in fact, not a problem at all.’

Harry, frowned, tilting his head questioningly towards Draco once more. ‘How so?’

Draco grinned self-assuredly. ‘Quite simply, my dear Harry: magic.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: my customary 'thanks for the kudos and comments, everyone!' I really appreciate them - and will continue to appreciate anything that anyone chooses to comment. Please review if you have absolutely anything to say about, erm... anything.  
> As a heads up, the next chapter might be a little late in coming; I, unfortunately, need to pass my exams and the likelihood of that diminishes slightly when I get distracted with writing. I'll try to keep on track, and if it is a bit late it won't be by much.  
> Thanks again for reading!


	13. The Festive Season

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I would have loved to have posted this for Christmas, but I'm not so cruel as to hold out for another two months to satisfy my desire for synchrony. As it is, this chapter is riddled with (premature) yuletide festiveness, a bit of fluff, and Draco acting a bit like the spoiled Malfoy ponce that he is (all in good-humour, of course). Enjoy!

If anything could live up to the name ‘wonders’, _Rue des Merveilles_ was it. Lucius had, surprisingly, graciously agreed to accompany Harry and Draco, and they had set out towards the fourth arrondissement, a significant walk from the Malfoy manner which was, naturally, shortened substantially by magic.

The pedestrian highway running beneath Paris, _Le Cachee Labyrinthe_ , was a magical construct that Harry felt was truly marvellous. Mr. Malfoy informed the boys – and Harry witnessed – that for every step they took on the Wizarding underground ‘maze’, nearly five hundred feet were taken in the Muggle word. To ‘avoid the chaos of Muggle transport’ Lucius had informed with a faint note of condescension in his tone.

The hall was a wide, open arena of indiscernible size, of pale stone walls and matching floors and a roof that was nearly as distant as the far wall. Lit by an ambient white-blue light that chased shadows into miniscule cracks in the wall, it was filled with wandering witches and wizards engaging in their own activities and apparently hardly as enthralled by the magical hall as Harry was. For one merely needed to take the designated steps that would align them with their above-ground destination and point their wand at the roof to be instantly transported to the site they had ‘walked’ to. The only difficulty was in trying to determine the required number of steps one needed to take, something that Harry found Lucius seemed to have no trouble with at all..

When they stepped onto _Rue des Merveilles_ – through a bubbling fountain of cupid, of all things – a sight that truly lived up to expectations met them. Though it was hardly a single road, more like a spider-webbing network of streets slicing across a dozen main roads, the beauty that Harry beheld appeared to have tumbled elegantly and completely from the pages of a storybook.

A magically-induced evening darkness swathed the entire district, permitting just the faintest glimpse of bashful stars and illuminated by the ethereal glow of luminescent vines that snaked across the side of every building. Blossoms the size of buttons sprung across the length of the plants, spilling out a soft, white-blue radiance that mirrored that in _Le Cachee Labyrinthe_ onto the passers-by below them.

Each building was a masterpiece in its own right. From towering structures of nearly fifty feet tall – selling what, Harry was unsure – to quaint, cottage-like abodes that nestled under their taller companions looming shadows, they varied in size and shape like an exaggerated mountain range. Every wall was white and yet somehow the architectural feats varied so greatly that the monochrome of the stone was somehow overlooked. The whiteness reflected the glow of the blossoms and vines to illuminate the equally white pavements that fit together like a patchwork quilt. In every wide window, lit by contrasting colours of yellows, reds and greens, shop-owners boasted their wares.

Along the broad street, drawn by a range of animals from griffons to pegasus to strange, overgrown dog-like creature with three tails, gypsy carts and fast-food vendors mulled amongst the moderate crowd. They wove a masterful dance amongst the shoppers as though choreographed, always moving and yet never risking ploughing over a potential customer.

It was so different to Diagon Alley; even the people seemed different, dressed not in robes so much as loose, skirt-like trousers and shirts with equally loose sleeves, long, pointed hoods hanging loosely to the small of their backs. But most startling to Harry was the noise. Or, more correctly, the lack of noise. Harry had always found Hogwarts to be unnecessarily loud, something he was altogether unfamiliar with. Oh, that was not to say that the French were quite, by any means, but simply that his personal experience lent itself to a more muted environment.

Parisian Wizarding public appeared to embody this trait. There was noise, yes, the murmur of chatter, but never more than a constant hum, like music played as a soothing background tone. It was…peaceful.

‘I’ll never look at Diagon Alley the same way, that is for certain.’

Draco’s voice was so hushed it was nearly a whisper. Harry glanced at the taller boy, smiling slightly at eyes squinted and head turning slowly in an attempt to capture every detail of his surroundings.

‘So typical. Of course, everything is all about the image with the French, isn’t it?’ In contrast, Lucius’ snide tone was dry, faintly scornful, even if it was without malice. While Harry and Draco had stared in silent awe and appreciation of the presentation before them, the elder Malfoy had disdained to show such interest. At least publicly.

Draco turned at his father’s words. ‘Oh, so you should fit right in father?’

A scowl met the young blonde’s murmur, but there was no heat to it. Harry thought he even glimpsed a glimmer of amusement beneath the smile. ‘Enough of that. Let us get started shall we? The day shall surely be gone before we know it.’

‘Indeed.’ Draco bowed his head with false pomp, and linked his arm through Harry's. ‘Where exactly would you head first, Harry? Just browsing, or have you anything in mind?’

Harry allowed Draco to direct him in a show of classical decorum with suppressed amusement; it was unnecessary, but he didn’t withdraw from the hand-hold; he’d rapidly developed a liking for direct contact with Draco. It was comforting, and as unimposing as _Rue des Merveilles_ appeared to him – at least in contrast to Diagon Alley – he still felt the constant roiling of nervousness whenever he entered public places. It was a by-product of his sheltered life, he could only assume.

‘I think I’ve pretty much got the ideas in mind,’ Harry replied, for he had. There’d been little else on his mind since their discussion the night before. ‘It’s more about finding the right shops. Most of it should be easy to come by, so long as I’ve got the right money.’

‘We’ll lend you as much as you need.’

Harry started at Lucius’s suggestion as though the man had physically tapped him on the shoulder. It was a surprise as much for the unexpectedness of his address as for the words themselves. He stared up at the tall man, tilting his head curiously. For all he attempted to appear hard and cold, Harry was beginning to realise that Lucius was remarkably kind at times. Especially to his son and wife. The resemblance to Draco was astounding, in more than just appearance.

‘T-that’s alright, sir. Thank you anyway, but I have money, in my parents’ vault. Or at least, I did at Gringotts.’

‘Ah, well then, we’ll be heading towards Dame Maria’s Banque. Down the Great Western Boulevarde, if I can recall.’

As it happened, the Wizarding world networked all of its most prominent banks. Dame Maria was perhaps one of the strangest structures Harry had ever laid eyes upon. Not only was elevated nearly three hundred meters off the ground, but several of the towers hung upside down. An unnaturally thick body of cloud shrouded the turreted roofs, creating a mystical theme. Though for all its mysticism, it was rather small.

‘Larger on the inside, you know.’ Draco nodded knowingly to Harry’s murmured observation. Harry closed his eyes as he reprimanded himself. Of course: magic.

After a very uncomfortable and slightly overwhelming meeting with a swarm of over-eager aurae –wind nymphs who appeared to outnumber the banking goblins ten to one – they floated down on oddly solid clouds to the pavements once more.

‘Alright, so first things first: you said you know just about what you’d like to get everyone.’ Draco raised an eyebrow, awaiting Harry’s confirmation, which he asserted with a slight nod.

‘Yeah. I was thinking-’

‘Ah, don’t tell me! It will spoil the fun.’ He twitched his finger pointedly, lifting his chin and staring down his nose pompously at his shorter friend.

It was Harry’s turn to raise an eyebrow. ‘Fun?’

Smiling in a faint shadow of his usual grin – they were in public, after all – Draco ignored the rolled eyes of his father and nodded with barely suppressed enthusiasm. ‘Of course. You buy, I guess who it’s for. I’m rather good, you know. I believe Pansy thinks I’m at least partially trained in Legilimancy.’

Harry felt his amusement at his friend rise once more. Draco showed his immaturity at the most unexpected times. ‘Alright. I’ll just…lead the way then.’

It took longer than they expected to work their way through the many shops and wide streets, especially given their complete lack of knowledge of their surroundings. A map would have been helpful; Diagon Alley may have been smaller and almost claustrophobic in the narrowness of some of its alleyways, but at least it didn’t have vast stretches of nameless buildings, dotted haphazardly with shops that required a keen eye to spot often minutely pinned signage. An eye that Harry did not possess; given his limited eyesight, he alternated between widening his eyes and blinking rapidly and squinting to muddle through blurred lettering of the occasional hand-painted shop signs.

Even with this restriction, however, Harry found it was he who directed them for the most part, more because of his knowledge of the language than for Draco’s suggestion that he ‘lead the way’. If anything, he found it a little disconcerting to have Draco and Lucius trailing behind him like loyal – though admittedly well-groomed – hounds. Neither Malfoy showed any particular disgruntlement, however; to a trained eye, they even seemed to be enjoying themselves.

Neville’s gift was the easiest to find. Even in a foreign country, and even attempting to filter through the baffling array of largely nameless buildings, it was almost impossible to overlook a nursery. Draco guessed straight away for whom he sought the intricately woven emerald green plant of pearly, semi-sentient seed-heads – a ‘Loki’s Consort’, the frizzy-haired shop owner had declared proudly.

‘It’s pretty, to be sure. But what does it actually do?’

Lucius sighed in exasperation, but didn’t voice any explanation. Harry suspected it was just as likely that the Malfoy patriarch knew as little of the plant as his son. He was beginning to understand where Draco acquired his skills in self-constructed masks.

‘It’s a stimulant when prepared in the right way, from what I can make out. Induces a mild euphoria that tends to alleviate inhibitions, but it’s exponentially potent in specific potions.’

Draco stared at him for a moment. ‘Where did you learn that? Not in Herbology.’

‘No, Neville spoke of it once. Said he would love to get his hands on one.’

‘Once? And you just happened to remember him mention it?’

Harry nodded, not looking up from the parchment he signed and printed Neville’s name onto. The shop owner had assured him most enthusiastically that it would be delivered to the subject on Christmas morning. The best part was that it didn’t even need an address. Harry didn’t understand how that worked, exactly, but he wasn’t about to question Wizarding postal services. It was, according to Draco, a vastly complex and procedure-driven system that arose one a year just in time for Christmas. Procedures and potential invasions of privacy aside, it was certainly useful. ‘I’ve got borderline eidetic memory. Remember pretty much everything I hear.’

Silence met his words and when he looked up both blondes were staring at him with identical expressions of barely concealed surprise and swelling bemusement. He frowned. ‘What?’

‘That would explain a lot.’ Draco snorted in exasperation, rolling his eyes towards the array of greenery that lined the walls with false interest.

‘What do you mean?’ Though not insulted, Harry was curious as to the cryptic statement.

Draco shrugged. ‘Only that you’re keeping pace with sixth years – sixth years, mind – after only studying magic for a few months. I was always pretty impressed by that.’

‘You were?’

‘It’s still impressive, even with an exceptional memory,’ Lucius murmured, voicing his contribution with the same false nonchalance that his son wielded so well. Harry was finding their similarities increasingly apparent and increasingly humourous. ‘You never studied at Beauxbatons?’

Harry shook his head. Lucius gave him a tight smile. ‘I can hardly blame you. A rather eccentric Headmistress, that Maxine woman.’ The older man huffed softly from his nose. ‘Shall we move on?’

For Ron, a quidditch jersey was remarkably easy to locate. The scar-balm less so, but still attainable. Draco had raised an eyebrow at the purchase but remained silent, to which Harry was grateful. He didn’t think that the brief display of insecurity Ron had shown when once describing the scarring on his arms should be common knowledge. A beautiful thestral bowstring he purchased for Luna – she was an apt violinist, or so she had idly professed – while he had managed to pinpoint a seller of pygmy puffs and added a pale purple puffball to his collection for Ginny. It appeared that Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes was booming in their sales, even on an international level. Draco had raised an eyebrow at that, but had ceded derogatory comments when Harry explained that of course he would only get another male; Ginny didn’t want to breed off them, but Arnold was in sore need of companionship.

It was with amusement from Draco and approval from Lucius when he considered and eventually selected an international voucher to Powdered Patisseries for Blaise. At first Draco had been somewhat startled, breaking into hearty chuckles, until Harry hesitantly attempted to explain that one, their friend had a natural sweet tooth, and two, Pansy had expressed a sincere desire to visit the chain representative in Hogsmeade. It had taken barely a moment for Draco to catch on.

‘I knew it! It wasn’t just me thinking it.’ He snapped his fingers in triumph at the sudden epiphany. ‘Pansy has been interested for years, but Blaise is always too oblivious to pick up on her subtly. So you think he’s finally realised?’

Harry shrugged, happy that he had induced the grin of satisfaction in his friend. ‘He stares at her almost permanently whenever she isn’t looking, and I don’t think it’s because he hates her.’

Draco nodded in enthusiastic agreement, grinning just on the inside of what Harry perceived he considered socially acceptable, and proceeded to construct an elaborate and extreme plot to nudge his two best friends into a relationship. Lucius watched in bemusement, as silent as Harry. As Harry peered at him sideways, they shared a fond glance that startled them both.

A wander through a bookstore had him laden with an armful of books for Lucius – subtly stowed away by a helpful shop assistant before he could be noticed – while several shops down he located a colourful array of socks and a cassowary quill. Draco had been baffled by both purchases and eventually, though with much reluctance, admitted his confusion.

‘The cassowary quill is for Professor McGonagall – to complete her collection of non-magical flightless bird quills – and the socks for Professor Dumbledore.’ Draco had simply stared at him for a moment, face entirely devoid of expression, before blinking rapidly and leading them onwards.

They eventually came to a jeweller that met Draco’s standards, and he proceeded to the counter to engage a shop assistant in a thorough discussion of engravings and to propose his design for his mother’s necklace. Thankfully one of the assistants spoke a respectable amount of English, so the young Malfoy didn’t need to blather through his own defensively lacking vocabulary to communicate, nor require the assistance of Harry as he had done on a number of occasions so far; given that it was a shopping trip designed for Harry’s benefit, Draco had made a startling number of purchases himself. Lucius wandered the wide rows in the shop, peering into glass counters with mild curiosity while Harry purchased a silver and opal necklace for Pansy.

For his part, Harry was feeling the exertion of the day sagging upon him. In that light-headed way, the artificial lighting of the shop was slightly too bright and his legs seemed just a little too heavy for rapid movement. He settled for simply edging at an exceptionally slow pace around the selections available.

He was just studying a selection of exquisitely designed hair combs when he felt a warmth flood the air beside him. Glancing upward, he stepped aside hastily as Lucius edged up to the glass cabinet. The taller man raised a quizzical eyebrow at the sudden movement, and Harry felt a flush redden his cheeks. _Damn my inability to keep a straight face anymore. Why did that even happen? It’s so embarrassing._ He didn’t voice his discomfort, however, simply slipping back to the cabinet and dropping his gaze back to the selection.

‘They’re very beautiful. And unique. Something I always find fascinating with antiques.’

Harry wasn’t sure whether Lucius was talking to him of simply muttering the observation to himself, but he nodded anyway. There was no need for a verbal reply to break the ensuing silence. At least until Lucius sought to break it.

‘Were you looking at any in particular?’

Harry glanced up at the blonde man through his fringe, peering at him questioningly. The man had seemed to be pointedly attempting to express as little interest in the two boys shopping exploits as possible throughout the morning. The question was unexpected and Harry could not entirely fathom from where the interest had sprung.

Turning back towards the display, he tapped the glass gently with his finger. ‘I think… the one at the back.’ He spoke softly, conscious of breaking the hush of the jewellers in a way that Lucius – and Draco from his continued conversation with the shop assistant – suggested was the expected norm. He fixed his eyes upon the piece; a traditional hair comb of deceptively simple design of bird; a hawk, if he was correct. It strayed from the cliché in that the creature seemed twisted somehow. Not in distress, but rather as though its image had been caught mid-flight, a model captured of the plunge towards the earth far below, talons bared as though preparing to land and one wing tucked slight while the other splayed. It was constructed of white gold, untarnished despite its apparent age, and glossed with a faintly radiant mother-of-pearl sheen beneath the wings.

Lucius hummed in approval from beside him. That in itself was a surprise, and surprisingly gratifying. ‘Exquisite. And for whom are you purchasing it.’

‘Mrs. Malfoy, sir.’

From the corner of his eye, he could just make out the faintly blurred expression of the man’s face as he turned towards him. It may have been his imagination, but he though he saw something of a glimmer of satisfaction, or even...approval? It was a strange sight, even just the briefly captured impression.

‘I think that it is a perfect choice.’ The words meant more to Harry than he could have expressed, so he kept silent.

As it turned out, Draco required a significant amount of time at the jewellers. So much time, in fact, that Harry soon tired of the array of bejewelled pieces and slipped outside the store with his decorative bag and hair comb, leaning against the glass of the front window wearily in wait. He wasn’t accustomed to long expeditions, even prior to his enforced bed rest, and a faint headache had sprung in his temple from straining and failing to use his eyes to their complete capacity. The morning had been draining, and he couldn’t even say how long they had been out for. The permanent evening sky, at first so beautiful, he could now perceive as a clever decision on part of the designers to distract shoppers from exactly how long they had been idling away amongst the stores.

Glancing once more inside through the glass window, Harry could make out the figure of Draco and Lucius at the counter, the elder having wandered to his son’s side after the first ten minutes of browsing. They had been there for so long, locked in animated discussion, that the assistant had conjured chairs for the three of them. Harry bit back an exasperated sigh, turning away from the image they presented. He could never understand the strange relationship between shopkeeper and client; strangers one moment, comrades the next.

For all of his apparent aloofness, Draco seemed prone to becoming enthusiastic over the smallest things. And not only that, but the other boy expressed an interest in some of the most unexpected areas. Fashionableness, for instance, seemed to be an ingrained aspect of his personality, while he seemed thoroughly engrossed in Muggle biology whenever Harry pondered aloud his admittedly limited knowledge on the subject, though he disregarded any other scientific field. He was finicky in his cleanliness and despised getting his hands dirty, but still enjoyed the unavoidably messy exploits of potions.

Potioneering held nothing on Ancient Runes, however. Harry couldn’t really understand the appeal, but Draco found it fascinating. He spoke of ‘the magic of the phrases’ that the runes represented, the ‘history of the magical artefacts’ engraved in symbols, but further than that Harry couldn’t understand a word of his attempts at explaining his passion.

And suddenly, Harry knew what he would get Draco for Christmas. He had avoided thinking of the subject, overlooking his attempts at deciding and coming up blank. _This proves it – there was something lying in wait for me to remember after all._

Glancing once more inside, ascertaining that both Malfoys were still deeply embedded in conversation, he started off at a trot down the street. The weariness faded slightly from him in his resolution. He hadn’t been keeping a particularly close eye out, but if his memory served him correctly then the sorts of shops he sought were only a few blocks away. He had a fairly good sense of direction, a skill that inevitably accompanied a reliable memory.

Winding down streets, he made his way to a narrow alley even quieter than the general hushed buzz of the rest of _Rue des Merveilles_. The faceless walls suggested that as many residences as stores lined the street, leaving those that boasted a sign and windows of displayed wares even more noticeable. Scanning quickly over the sparsely spaced buildings, squinting in his attempt to read the letters of the signage, Harry released his unrealised worry in a sigh as he identified the one he was searching for: Ancient and Marvellous Creations.

The shop was dark; gloomy, some would say. It held an ambiance that immediately gave one the desire to drift into sleep. The incense wafting in the air and Harrys already weary state didn’t help with maintaining a clear mind. It was the antithesis of the jeweller’s establishment. Instead of the brightly lit walls and wide spacing of low shelving, the stacks of miscellaneous objects nearly touched the roof and the walkways were tight enough to induce claustrophobia in the right – or wrong – person. Harry didn’t particularly mind. His experience with a certain cupboard had left him oddly immune to tight spaces.

Weaving through the rows of rolled tapestries, bundles of scrolls, bronze looking utensils and amber crystal orbs, he made his way to the counter. Juxtaposition presented itself. The girl behind the counter could not have been less fitting with the atmosphere if she had tried. Flicking through the thin pages of a magazine, her high ponytail and thick make-up would have been far better suited to better lighting. As he watched, the girl blew a bubble from the gum in her mouth that popped with a shimmer of conjured glitter that disappeared before it could drift to the countertop.

He must have startled at the pop – rather embarrassingly – for the girl looked up and offered him a friendly smile of flashing teeth. ‘Heya, kid, whatcha lookin’ for?’

Her accent was truly terrible. It sounded… American maybe? Or perhaps Australian? Harry wasn’t familiar with accents and he couldn’t hardly be bothered to care. Clearing his throat softly, he stepped up to the counter. It always took an extra boost of confidence to speak to strangers, and the experience he had garnered today didn’t assist him any in the moment. Rather, he felt as if his stores of confidence had depleted somewhat.

‘I, um… I was looking for something in particular.’ He swallowed the huskiness in his throat, forcing his voice louder than a whisper. ‘I saw it in your Hogsmeade branch about a month ago?’

The girl nodded, slipping from her chair and disappearing on her knees behind the counter. A moment later she reappeared, an impressive tome in her hands. She heaved audibly as she lugged it onto the table, opened the cover and flipped to the first page of writing.

‘You got a description? What’s it look like?’

Harry relayed the details, as accurately as he could. The girl took it in her stride, as though she met such requests every day. Which, on second thought, she probably did. A few moments later, flapping through the thick pages of the massive book, she loosed an excessively loud ‘ahah!’ and jabbed the scrawled writing with a finger.

‘Found it. That’s an old one, that one. Whatcha getting it for?’

‘Just a gift.’ The girl didn’t seem particularly interested, if her constant flipping through pages and fumbling for parchment, quill and ink was any indication, but he answered her anyway.

‘Ah, yeah, a collector or sumin?’

‘Something like that.’

Minutes later, the parchment was signed and addressed – he could actually give the address this time, though it evidently didn’t seem to matter that much – and left the shop with assurances that it would be at his house by that afternoon, appropriately gift-wrapped. ‘We’ll make sure it gets hidden under your bed, like’, the girl had winked at him. He didn’t really understand the significance of the statement, nor how the deliverer would know which room he was staying in, but brushed it off with a resolute shrug. He supposed it was beneficial, if it could keep Draco from seeing it and had to simply ignore the fact that such a delivery would result in a stranger actually _entering the room he slept in_. Apparently magically, too.

As he walked back towards the jeweller, he kept his eyes on his feet, considering the list in his head. That was just about everyone done, except for Hermione. He had a few thoughts for her, but one in particular seemed to stand out. He just had to find…

As though summoned by thought, a squat store across the plaza he stepped into presented itself with large, thankfully readable golden letters ‘Hoots and Howls’ printed just above faintly lit double doors. Harry took a step towards it before pausing. He should probably go back and see if Draco and Lucius were finished. The jeweller was only just around the corner, and it wouldn’t take long. But then, he couldn’t imagine that they would really be missing his silently-waiting presence out the front of the store. If he just quickly went into the pet store, he would be finished with everyone. Simple.

The decision was taken from him, however, when he felt a heavy and unexpected clap of fingers on both shoulder. Gasping in fright and hunching his shoulders, he felt himself spun around to face a flushed and very disgruntled Draco.

‘Where on earth did you wander off to? Are you trying to give me a heart attack?’

Harry blinked up at the boy, the painful tingle in his shoulders easing upon recognition of the boy who grasped his shoulders. He tilted his head, peering up at the blonde with a frown as he watched his friend close his eyes as though attempting to regain composure and press his lips together.

‘What’s wrong?’

‘What’s wrong?’ Draco nearly hissed his retort. It sounded angry, and for a moment Harry felt himself shrink into the upwelling of anxiety. Until Draco opened his and in that moment Harry realised his error. The other boy wasn’t disgruntled but worried. He was honestly worried that he didn’t know where Harry had gone. The question _‘why?’_ whispered in his ear, but he bit his tongue to stop himself from asking it himself. He didn’t understand, exactly, but obviously it was important to Draco. He unasked question was answered anyway. ‘Don’t just go wandering off like that. Something could have happened to you.’

‘It’s a shopping plaza, Draco. I… I don’t think anything would happen to me.’

‘That’s what every innocent victim says before they get mugged, or beaten up, or abducted, or…’

Harry flinched at the vehemence of Draco’s tone as much as the words themselves. It was confronting, the force of his tone. He had worked himself up to a near frenzy in distress and, though Harry still couldn’t really understand why, he regretted what he had done if it cause his friend to worry.

‘I’m sorry, I was just wandering…’

Draco drew in a deep, rattling breath. ‘No, no I’m sorry. Sorry, I… I just got a bit…’ He trailed off, dropping his chin to his chest. His hands, though, remained on Harry’s shoulders. ‘Could you please just… let me know when you’re leaving somewhere? I’ll go with you, or at least I’ll know where you are, just in case…’

The broken words themselves bespoke the truth of Draco’s feelings more than the words themselves. Draco was always eloquent. He would have to have been significantly shaken to work himself into such a state. Glancing briefly over his friends shoulder, Harry could make out the figure of Lucius idling near the fountain, watching the pair with a calculating gaze that was oddly knowing, as though a puzzle piece had just clicked into place. Harry didn’t really understand that either.

‘I’m sorry. I’ll definitely let you know next time.’

Draco nodded, took another deep breath and loosened his hands from their tight grip. His right hand slipped to his side but the left dropped down to wrap his fingers around Harry’s hand. ‘T-thanks. Okay, so, nearly done?’ His voice was slightly too loud, a little too jovial, as though he was trying to present a composed face but overcompensating. His voice shook slightly still. Harry truly couldn’t understand it; no one had ever really cared where he went, except maybe his uncle, but so long as he was there when he wanted him Stephen honestly didn’t have must interest in his day-to-day pastimes. Draco’s reaction was a foreign concept.

‘Yeah, just Hermione left.’

‘And? What were you thinking?’

‘An owl. A cat-friendly one, preferably. She said she struggles over the holiday break with corresponding to people and has been thinking of getting one for a while.’

Draco smiled, still slightly wobbly but with genuine approval. His nerves seemed to have settled at least slightly. ‘Sounds great.’

They finished up quickly before departing the magical mall. Draco rapidly fell back into his usual self and Lucius seemed more accommodating of his whims the nearer they got to home. Harry did notice, however, that not once did Draco let go of his hand.

* * *

There was something about Christmas Day that innately alerted one to it’s happening. At least, Draco assumed as much. He wondered idly, in the way one does as ones mind is sluggishly awakening and warming up to full throttle, if it was something of a sixth sense or if his subconsciousness was simply determined to enforce the ‘importance’ of the day and keep his sleepy mind on high alert. He certainly awoke earlier that morning than he ever did any other day of the year. It was… yes, it was nearly dark still outdoors.

Yawning widely, Draco rolled over and dragged himself to sitting. He was in bed, naturally, and as had become custom of the past week, not his own. It was smaller, for one, than that in his own suites, and the room it was stationed in reflected the reduced size. The colour tone was slightly mellower too, the creaminess of the walls unbroken by the faint touch of personalisation he had added to his rooms in his single childhood visit to the foreign manor. The crackle of the fireplace across from him was also slightly brighter, emitting more warmth than his did – Narcissa insisted it was so, professing that Harry was ‘too skinny and needed all the help to keep warm that he could get’.

Drifting his gaze towards the other occupant in the bed, Draco felt himself smile softly at the sight of his friend. The smile didn’t bother him as much as it once may have done. He had accepted that Harry was a friend, a true friend, and someone dear to him. Why should he feel embarrassed about smiling at the sight of him?

The other boy was curled in his typical foetal position, knees nearly touching his chin and face half buried in the pillow and shrouded by tousled hair. Only a single closed eyelid could be seen above the blanket. _He has really long eyelashes_ , was a thought that fluttered through Draco’s mind not for the first time as he cocked his head in observation. It was less apparent when Harry wore his, but they were definitely exceptionally so. The thought similarly always gave him a faint warmth in his chest; he felt like he was seeing a little more of his friend, something that had been hidden in the months of their friendship at Hogwarts.

The last week had seen a growth in their relationship that Draco neither could nor cared to explain. He didn’t quite understand the exact reason, but something about Harry’s presence – perhaps the state he had found him in? – spurred him to maintain a near-constant companionship with his friend. He felt a strange and sudden growth of something he had taken days to recognise and at first had been alarmed at but now simply accepted for what it was. He was protective of his friend. Not only in response to the knowledge of what he had been through, but also for the understanding of who he was.

Harry was a very fragile person, a characteristic that starkly contrasted his overwhelming strength at other times. His fragility had always been apparent, in his diminutive size if nothing else, but since Draco had stumbled across him in that park so short a time ago it had expressed itself even more clearly. Simply, Harry felt, deeply and profoundly; a fact that was remarkable in that it was now apparent that he did so.

For months in his last school term, Draco had picked at the slight nuances in his friend’s expressions, the ever-so slight quirks of eyebrows and twitching of lips, the flicker of eyes and the way he bowed his head at certain times to hide his face from view. Harry could have shamed a Slytherin for the mask he presented to his fellows, it was so fool proof, and Draco had become somewhat fascinated with storing each glimmer of knowledge into his personal inventory in an attempt to read more into Harry’s words than the phrases leant themselves to. And he thoroughly enjoyed it. Perhaps it was objectifying his appointed ‘ward’, but it amused him to no end to work out each cue and attempt to discern its meaning. It was the perfect distraction for him at the time. Exactly what he had needed.

Everything had changed on that night nearly a week and a half ago. From the moment he had first seen him, it was as though the thick layers of the mask Harry wore had been stripped like the skin of an onion, baring the pale, defenceless heart to anyone who cared to cast a careless glance his way. It was almost like he was incapable of preventing his emotions from playing across his face; he held even less capacity for concealing his expressions than a child, as though it were a skillset he was mastering for the first time. And not only his expressions, but his eyes.

Draco had always been a little disconcerted by the flatness of Harry’s eyes. Even Slytherins couldn’t completely mask their feelings in the widening of pupils, the slight narrowing glare of aversion or heavy-lidded condescension. Harry didn’t have that. It had been a minor triumph to realise that where Harry lacked Lyssy inexplicably seemed to present – it was one of the first indicators to Draco of the cat’s familiar status – but it didn’t reduce his unease. Initially, he had reconciled himself to the fact by reasoning it was likely as much a product of his glasses as the eyes themselves. It made the prospect of once more adorning himself with spectacles that much more reprehensible. He could only hope that it wasn’t so.

The idle thought brought the taste of self-disgust onto his tongue and Draco swallowed convulsively. The memory of Harry’s near panic at the idea of removing the need for spectacles was enough to cause him to grit his teeth and struggle with the urge to launch a fist through the nearest wall. It was no mystery to himself – and likely his mother – the cause behind Harry’s fear. He didn’t know the exact circumstances, but the simple knowledge, the reminder of Harry’s… uncle clouded his vision with redness and brought his heartbeat to throb intensely in his temple. If he ever met the man he would not hesitate to wring the man’s throat in the most un-decorous and base-Muggle approach possible. The imagined crack of a neck would be oh-so-satisfying.

Crushing the wave of hatred with a practiced hand – unfortunately too practiced of late – Draco leant towards his friend and flicked his fringe from his forehead. Even the slight touch caused Harry to shiver, shoulders bunching slightly and a frown indenting his forehead. It was a conditioned response, Draco knew. Harry still didn’t like to be touched, except – oddly enough – by him. Even Narcissa’s daily strokes to the head, attempts to desensitise the dark-haired boy, still sometimes elicited a slight cringe that no amount of preparedness could seem to shake.

With Draco, though, Harry seemed to even cling to the offer of contact. It was an odd situation – if Draco unexpectedly touched him, especially when Harry was unaware of his proximity, the smaller boy would startle and withdraw before easing when he realised to whom the hand belonged to. With the offer of an arm around a shoulder, a companionable slouch into his side or the holding of hands for reassurance, Harry responded as though he had been offered the moon and wouldn’t let go for his life.

It was surreal. If he thought about it objectively, Draco was sure he would have been horrified that he, or anyone for that matter, would allow such contact. He had never been a particularly tactile person himself, but somehow, with Harry, he couldn’t help but want to reassure himself of his friend’s presence through touch. For that was what it was, he had concluded. Being away from Harry, his mind immediately fell into trekking old tracks and worrying at anxieties like a dog with a bone. He would not be eased until he was back with him and assured that he was safe and sound, away from the looming threat of the faceless stranger Harry called ‘uncle’. That was what he had deduced. It was all a matter of reassurance.

That didn’t exactly explain how Harry benefitted, however. He didn’t think that someone who visibly recoiled from touch as though burned would suddenly find reassurance in some well-meant skinship. Draco had been at a bit of a loss at first – not enough that he had hesitated when Harry obviously liked the comfort of another person, but he was confused to say the least. Until Narcissa took it upon herself to enlighten him.

Draco could smugly claim that many overlooked his mother’s masterful skills of perception, cunning and social navigation. While Lucius was a recognised partner in the dance of society Narcissa made a rather remarkable – and at times even more exceptional – accompaniment. He would even approach her for assistance if he found himself incapable of finding an adequate solution to a social blunder. Add to that her experience in psyche-magic and therapy and Narcissa could perhaps be the best person he could question on the subject. So, one night when Harry had slumped to an early sleep against him, Draco had voiced his query.

Narcissa had paused momentarily, staring at her son with unnerving intensity. Draco had forced himself to remain immobile under her scrutiny, but just barely managed. Finally, she appeared to find what she was looking for and the heat of her gaze quelled slightly.

‘I believe, my son, that Harry has developed something of a saviour complex, with you at its heart.’ She had sipped calmly at a cup of tea after dropping that little _Bombarda,_ as though discussing the weather, and merely quirked an eyebrow at her son’s incredulity.

‘What?’

‘A saviour complex, or something of the like. I believe that, when you found him, Harry had sunken into a state of desperation from which he was unable to draw himself, and descended into something of a self-destructive spiral.’ She paused, the other eyebrow rising at her son’s continued miscomprehension. ‘He had given up.’

‘Given up?’ Draco’s voice was a gravelly croak.

Narcissa nodded. ‘Quite so. It was possibly that which, coupled with his experiences just before hand,’ at this, Draco’s mother had clenched her jaw and something akin to a snarl curled her lips, ‘that led to his comatose state. However, somewhere along the line, your appearance, which essentially saved him, has ingrained itself inside him and placed you on a pedestal.’ Another sip of her tea, though it seemed more forced this time. ‘Or so I perceive.’

Draco had stared unseeingly into the fireplace across the room as his mother’s words sunk in. It was a little confronting. Empowering, too, if he was to be completely honest. But most prominently, he found himself discontented, even disheartened by the words. Finally, working through his emotions, he spoke.

‘So he just sees me as the person who saved him?’

Narcissa’s finely plucked eyebrow rose once more, a little scathingly this time. ‘Just?’

‘No, that’s not what I meant. I…’ Draco fumbled for words, lost in baffling embarrassment that barely tinged the disappointment, and struggled to enunciate. ‘It could have happened with anyone, really, then?’

To his complete surprise, Draco’s mother stared back at him with barely suppressed amusement that finally surfaced as a half-smile. It was an all-too-knowing smile that Draco didn’t quite understand. One that made him feel distinctly uncomfortable. ‘Does that upset you, Draco? That he may have formed an…attachment to someone else.’

Draco frowned in response. He pursed his lips and looked away, resolutely ignoring his mother’s pointed stare. He wasn’t sure he fully understood it and got the feeling she was insinuating something he also blindly overlooked. It made him feel like a child kept in the dark ‘for his own safety’. Or his parent’s amusement, as the case may be.

Finally taking pity upon him, Narcissa continued. ‘No, dear, I do not believe he would have. The level of trust that I have seen Harry place in you could not have been instilled in a simple stranger. A friend, at the least, or someone even closer would be infinitely more viable.’

The unrealised tension in Draco’s chest abruptly unravelled, the faint difficulty he had breathing easing. Yes, he would have been sad if Harry had become close to another person; he was the his best friend, whether Harry chose to acknowledge it or not. It was childish of him, he knew, but that didn’t make it any less true.

Only barely aware of his own actions, he dropped his arm around Harry and squeezed his shoulder. Reassuring the other boy only, of course, even in sleep. He released his hold as he saw his mother once more smirk in that infuriating smile. What was that even about?

‘Just how close are you, Draco?’

It was a question that the young man was not entirely unprepared for, but felt easy about nonetheless. He didn’t quite understand the connection to their previous conversation – it appeared dubious at best – though supposed it was bound to happen eventually. Narcissa hadn’t commented on their friendship once till then.

‘What do you mean?’

‘Well, how did you meet? Are you close at school?’

Draco shrugged. ‘At least as close as I am to Blaise or Pansy, I’d say.’

‘Really?’ His mother sounded thoroughly intrigued by his claim, enough to make him shift uncomfortably.

‘Why?’

Ever in control of the conversation – Narcissa knew what she wanted and ignored any distracting questions along the way – Draco’s mother brushed his query aside and presented her own. ‘When did you meet? I cannot fathom how you two would have become so…close.’

That infuriating smile, the repetition of that word, nearly caused Draco to grind his teeth. He had an inkling of what she was insinuating, and didn’t exactly know how she had reached such a conclusion. He settled his arm more comfortably around Harry, comforting. A comfort to Harry. Of course. ‘I don’t know, just in class. We became partners in Defence Against the Dark Arts and it just sort of happened.’

‘Just happened?’

Draco sighed, exasperated. ‘Exactly what conclusion are you trying to reach, Mother?’ He was tiring of her toeing the line. _Get to the point, already!_

Taking pity on him once more, Narcissa bowed her head, conceding. ‘Alright, I shall breach the honeyed tone and drive straight to the point. I had thought there to be more to your friendship that simple…friendship.’

Staring in disbelief at her bluntness, Draco felt a flush creep into his cheeks for the first time in recent memory. It was entirely too embarrassing, and it probably didn’t help that he couldn’t quite bring himself to release his hold on Harry’s sleeping form. ‘Mother! Are you suggesting –?’

‘Oh, calm yourself, Draco. That was not the direction I was insinuating. At the moment, anyway.’ Her predatory smile spoke otherwise, but she quickly wiped it away as though casting her amusement aside for later enjoyment. ‘I am referring to a magically-founded relationship.’

‘Magically-founded?’

‘Indeed. I know you, my dear, and love you though I do, I cannot believe that you would take to a quiet, strange boy newly arrived into your cohort. And not even a Slytherin, at that.’

‘He could have been a Slytherin. We’ll never know.’ Even Draco could hear the touch of defensiveness in his tone.

‘Yes, he could have, strange though his inability to be sorted may seem. But that is beside the point.’ She glanced down at her tea, nose twitching in distaste before slipping her wand into her hand and refilling the mug to steaming perfection. As though unaware she had left Draco tensed uncomfortably in his seat; she wasn’t, Draco knew, but simply intentionally leaving him hanging on her words. ‘I believe that, in much the same way that Harry ‘called’ you to him but days ago, he also ‘called’ to those around him when he first began at your school. Do you understand what I am saying?’

‘Called? You mean magically? Why would he do that?’

‘Why exactly? Draco, considering what we have come to learn of your friend affords a certain understanding on the subject. You said yourself that Harry was not prone to inviting companionship when he first began at school. It is my suspicion that he has led a lonely life, though whether self-inflicted or induced by circumstance I cannot entirely deduce.

‘However, from what little we know of magic is that while it is directed consciously by intent, a subconscious response to emotion is also a significant drive. Hence, the occurrence of accidental magic. If the desire, even unconscious, is strong enough, magic will manifest itself in the most direct attempt to achieve such a desire.’

‘Yes.’ Draco frowned, confused. ‘And?’

‘If Harry was lonely, truly lonely despite what he attempted to tell himself and the way he forced himself to act, do you not think his magic would have responded?’

Draco dropped his eyes down to his sleeping friend, brow wrinkling in deepening thought. He hadn’t considered what his mother was talking of. He didn’t even know how she had stumbled upon such a train of thought, let alone reached such conclusions. He pondered the possibility. Was Harry truly lonely? Did his magic ‘call out’ to others in an attempt to ease some of that loneliness? And if so, what did that make of those who responded to such a call? It would make sense that such an unconscious desire was only implemented in a Wizarding community; Muggles, with such a limited magical core – so limited that many witches and wizards professed they possessed none at all – would not have responded to such a magical song. Magic spoke to magic. Hence, only one with a distinct magical core would be affected by such a cry.

It would certainly explain a lot. The longer he considered, the more sense it made. Not only Draco but everyone else in their year, everyone in Hogwarts even, had been overwhelmingly intrigued by the ‘new boy’. More than intrigued. Draco remembered idly how Blaise had commented on the continued fascination, long past its due. It made remarkably more sense, given the supposition Narcissa presented.

Suddenly, a thought occurred to him. A painful thought, he was almost ashamed to admit. ‘Mother? Is our friendship magically induced?’

Narcissa tilted her head questioningly. ‘Whatever do you mean?’

‘I mean…’ He struggled from a moment, eloquence failing him. Such had happened with increased frequency of late. ‘Harry is my friend. I know he is my friend. He is also Blaise’s friend, and Pansy’s friend, Hermione’s, Neville’s, Ron’s. Is it all simply a product of magical induction? Take away the magic, are we still…?’

He couldn’t quite bring himself to say it. The thought was distressing enough by itself. Not only would it render their friendship a fallacy, but the possibility suggested that such was potentially even a form of Compulsion. Something that, even as the thought registered, he could never believe Harry capable of, even unconsciously.

‘Do you believe your friendship to be so shallow?’

As soon as she spoke, Draco knew the truth of his mother’s words instantly. Guilt pinched his lips and, though even unresolved as his predicament still was Draco felt the roiling in his gut and the unexpected dread dissipate. ‘No. No I don’t.’

Narcissa nodded sharply, satisfaction settling upon her face. ‘Good. I would have been disappointed if you had. Magic cannot forge bonds – infatuation, definitely, obsession and even blind loyalty. But friendship? The bond forged by shared experience and fondness of another person? No, magic is not so great.’

Draco nodded in agreement. However, he felt compelled to push further. ‘But then why did you say… well, if not to compel into friendship, what was Harry’s magic doing?’

‘Hmm.’ Narcissa was silent for a moment as she pondered. ‘Well, you would likely be a better judge of that than I. I doubt that everyone took to him as a friend, entirely. Likely that they simply took a more notable interest in him, something to pave the way for ease of friendship. Am I right?’

Already nodding in agreement, the images of Pansy’s initial fixation yet condescension, the Ravenclaw’s confused and somewhat jealous interest, and the Gryffindor’s immediate attempts to impress themselves upon the newest addition to their year rose to the surface of his memories. Couple that with the fact that, swathed in heavy clothes and seemingly drawn to the shadows of the room, Harry had not been the most approachable person yet still maintained the attention of his fellow classmates, understanding suddenly became clear. No, not all of the sixth years had responded positively. The fascination, the interest, was there, surely, just not always favourably.

A feeling of immense relief flooded him. He didn’t quite understand why the feeling was so profound – Slytherins typically used one another, after all; friendship was an unlikely by-product – but for once, he simply accepted it. Glancing once more down at his friend, who had shifted ever-so-slightly further into his side, he felt a smile twitch his lips.

‘I guess I should be glad, then. Of his magic. For whatever reason.’

‘Indeed you should.’ The unnerving intensity that Narcissa could radiate with ease resurfaced and she stared penetratingly at her son. ‘But remember, Draco. A friendship based on shared experiences and the joy of companionship is one degree. One based on absolute trust is entirely another.’

‘Absolute trust?’ The thought was as daunting as it was uplifting.

‘Utterly. Do not take it so lightly. I would not look favourably upon betrayal of such trust, my son.’

The hardness of her words sent a shiver down Draco’s spine. It was unnerving, to be on the receiving end of his mother’s potential wrath. He had seen it distributed sparsely in the past, and each incident had embedded itself in his memory as a warning against the repercussions of pushing his mother too far. He was a little baffled, however, at her intensity. Narcissa was naturally caring of others, in her subtle, roundabout way, but never at the expense of her family. Before that moment, he could never have anticipated her threatening – yes, it was definitely a threat! – to punish him for causing distress in another. Not substantially, anyway.

‘What is this, mother? Are you perhaps drawn in by the magic too?’ He tried to keep the comment light-hearted. Ease the tension, diffuse her chilling intensity. The attempt failed.

Narcissa stared at him flatly for a moment, her maternal affection crushed to pitiful obscurity. He nearly sighed with relief when she shifted instead to look at the boy curled into his side. ‘Perhaps. But that is not all. I… I have seen the effects of similar trauma induced on patients before.’ Her eyes became distant, and Draco realised she was revisiting the past in sorrowful nostalgia. ‘Some have healed, recovered and moved on. In others the results were regrettable. I fear to say even disastrous. One young woman in particular, little more than a girl… The man she turned to for freedom, to save her from her past, instead shackled her further in the grief that manifested in her mind. I would not see that happen to another, not a stranger and certainly not a boy who has asked nothing of the world save to be left in peace.’ Her face became flat, determined. ‘Certainly not to a _child.’_

Even now, days later, the words resounded in Draco’s head with a vividness that could have rivalled a pensieve’s clarity. He didn’t know of whom his mother spoke, but the sadness and regret in her eyes was almost painful to witness.

Turning his attention once more to the boy at his side, he carded his hands through the dark hair more deeply. It was quite long, and remarkably soft. He would have to ask what shampoo Harry used, though wouldn’t have been surprised if the question was met by blank confusion and an admittance of the complete lack of treatment at all.

Shoulders hunching in response to the contact, Harry quivered beneath the blankets as he swum into wakefulness. He didn’t start when he first awoke to contact anymore; Draco had woken him so too many times for that already. He just couldn’t help himself, if he was to be honest. Long lashes batted slowly as he opened his eyes, head tilting upwards towards the Draco beside him. A small smile curled his lips. Not a full smile – he didn’t seem capable of doing that – but it was a smile nonetheless.

‘Morning.’

‘Good morning. Merry Christmas.’

‘How very cliché of you,’ Harry murmured in sleepy reply.

Draco smirked. ‘It’s Christmas; the celebration is basically a cliché in itself. You’ll have to be a bit accommodating, at least for today, or I think you’ll be likely to tear your own hair out.’

Harry murmured another reply that was muffled by his head turning into the pillow. He was not a slow waker, Draco had come to realise, and so the burying back into the bed linens was not a sign of drowsiness but more a reluctance to face the day. A realisation that Draco had unearthed days before, with the very first mention of Christmas. Not for the first time he wondered in muted horror over his friend’s hesitancy and dread. _What kind of a child, or teenager even, dislikes Christmas?_

‘Alright, let’s get up.’

Turning back towards Draco’s amused stare, Harry’s brow creased slightly. ‘Already? You’re not usually one to get up so early. What’s the hurry?’

Draco sighed in mock exasperation. ‘Harry, Christmas entitles an early wake up. Even I can accept necessity where it is due.’

‘Are you sure you’re really sixteen, not five?’

‘Of course! Nearly seventeen, in fact. Your point?’ He knew exactly what Harry was suggesting, but similarly knew that the boy would rarely bluntly state the truth as he saw it. Predictably, Harry just shook his head and pushed himself to sitting.

It took a little urging on Draco’s part, but Harry eventually climbed from his bed and accepted the clothes Draco drew from the wardrobe and thrust into his hands. With an order to be dressed by the time he returned, Draco left his friend biting his lip, brow creasing again in worry. He sighed sadly at the anxiety induced by a day that was supposed to elicit excitement and enthusiasm. He hastened down the hall to dress with more speed than he would usually conduct; he didn’t want to leave his friend in such a state of unease.

Dressed in a casual robe of dark green and once more outside the door to Harry’s room, it was with the same reluctance that his friend was drawn down towards the breakfast hall. Harry wore a robe of paler green, nearly the exact shade of his eyes – a demonstration of Draco’s mother’s contribution to the wardrobe – that he tugged at as though it itched with fervour. It didn’t; Draco knew this for a fact. He clasped Harry cold fingers in his own and squeezed gently, offering a smile that he thought managed to conceal his excitement, and led the way through the manor.

Not for the first time, Draco marvelled that he had disliked the French estate so fiercely in his childhood. Perhaps it was simply a maturing of taste in his age, but he looked upon the fine lines of every doorway, the delicate paintings and portraits that bowed respectfully at his approach before easing back into informality when he passed, and couldn’t help smiling once more, this time in satisfaction. Maybe it was simply that the colour tones, splashes of cream, tan and tastefully scant pastels, contrasted so completely to the darkness that pervaded the London Manor that it was as though a weight had been lifted from his shoulders.

The thought triggered a melancholy that he did not quite succumb to. He was getting better at ignoring that which he could not change, a necessity driven by both his mother and father’s insistence that he step aside from partaking in any of the discussions on the matter of their dubious allegiances. It had hurt at first, to be isolated from something that involved him so significantly. It was his fault, truly, that his family was endangered. Disregarding his father’s prior involvement with the Dark Lord – for it had been years ago, and he had only returned to the twisted man’s side under threat – it was Draco’s doing, Draco’s assignment, that had raised his family’s interest in those murderous red eyes. Even if it were no desire of his own, he _should_ be doing more, helping more, trying to right the wrong of his role that could so easily lead to the destruction of his family. At least if he failed then he would have known he had tried.

Feeling the beginnings of the all-too-familiar depression settle upon his shoulders, Draco shook his head and forced the thoughts from his mind. No, today he was not going to think about it. He would trust in his mother and father, trust in their assurance that they would take care of things, and simply live in the moment. The Dark Lord was a sea away – he would need at least an international portkey to drop in upon them – and Draco doubted that he would seek out the Malfoys to offer them his yuletide well wishes.

Glancing over his shoulder towards Harry, he pushed a smile onto his face. One that came even more easily when he noticed the sickly pallor of his friends face. It was almost endearing that he could get so worried about something so inconsequential; the irony in the cause of each of their distress was not lost on Draco. ‘You’re not walking to your execution, you know.’

Harry met his gaze with eyes that were impossibly large in his small face. _Almost pixie-like_ , Draco decided. Yes, he definitely had a pixie-like cast to his features. Disregarding the lack of malevolent mischief, of course. ‘I’m sorry. I don’t mean to spoil anyth-’

‘Whoever said you were spoiling anything?’ Squeezing his friend’s hand, he pushed his smile wider. It was an easy task to accomplish when he was looking at Harry, especially when he saw a faint, wavering smile in response. ‘Just calm down. You’re really so worried about celebrating? No one’s going to judge you for anything.’

‘Oh, now you’ve got me thinking I’m going to be judged…’

‘I just said you wouldn’t be!’

‘I know, but now I feel like you’re just saying that.’

Draco sighed in exasperation, rolling his eyes to the ceiling. He couldn’t help a faint chuckle bubble from his lips. ‘You’re really that scared?’

Harry chewed on his lip for a moment. ‘I don’t know if scared is the right word. I feel, I don’t know, guilty? Or something?’

‘How do you mean?’

Shrugging, Harry turned his gaze away from Draco to focus instead upon his fingers that trailed down the bannister as they descended the stairwell. ‘You’ve all helped me so much. And your mother has given me more clothes than I’ve ever seen in my entire life.’

‘Yes, but she enjoys doing that sort of thing.’

Another shrug. ‘It doesn’t feel right receiving gifts from people who have done nothing but give me gifts since I got here. It makes me feel like I should be doing more.’

Draco frowned, puzzled. He couldn’t really think of any gifts they had given Harry in the week since he’d arrived, but knowing his friend as he was beginning to remarkably well, he suspected that Harry would see a proffered slice of bread as a gift. And that was to say nothing of the butter. ‘You got us gifts though, didn’t you? I didn’t see you get me anything but…’

He didn’t realise how utterly childish he sounded until the words had already slipped out. A faint warmth threatened to colour his cheeks, but he resolutely thrust it aside. It was all for the best, however, for Harry seemed genuinely amused by the statement. His smile grew slightly and the death-grip easing to a simple comforting clasp.

‘Yes, I got you a gift.’

Fighting to regain his composure, Draco raised an eyebrow sceptically. ‘Oh? I didn’t see. I would be awfully upset if I discovered you had forgotten me.’

Harry seemed to be fighting back the urge to laugh now, a fact that made the situation seem less humiliating somehow. ‘You really are such a child.’

‘It’s Christmas.’

‘You know, you can’t use that excuse for everything.’

Draco snorted. ‘Of course I can. It’s Christmas. I’ll do what I want.’ He tipped up his chin and ell into silence, though the morning seemed suddenly much brighter.

The breakfast hall was less empty than expected. Tugging Harry through the oaken doors into a well-lit room - smaller and outfitted in furniture more petite than the dining hall – Draco felt it akin stepping outdoors into the sunlight as the pair bathed in the white glow of the walls, reflecting the dusky morning grey light across the room. Narcissa, pristine and presentable as always in a robe of deep violet, turned at their entrance with a smile spreading across her face. Draco marveled not for the first time how she could always remain so composed in any circumstances. He felt that the primary reason for his own release from the nagging worries of the looming threat was that his parents had lifted the burden. How his mother and father both remained so stately and even appeared to overlook the severity of their situation at times was a wonder to him.

'Good morning, Draco, Harry.'

Draco nodded his head respectfully; even on Christmas, it would not do to take too many liberties. 'Mother. Merry Christmas.'

'And to you, dear.' Her smile broadened, crinkling her eyes in a homely manner that stood far from the cold, composed facade she presented as her public face. Her hand tinkered idly with the handle of her teacup for a moment before raising it to her lips. 'Breakfast?'

Turning to Harry, Draco raised an eyebrow. 'What would you like?'

For his part, Harry looked in a state of resumed discomfort, the ease of moments before slipping as they entered the breakfast hall. Draco had hoped his friend’s tension would have remained lifted, but uncertainties seemed to be rearing their heads again. From the moment they had stepped through the oaken doors, the other boy had become markedly paler, chin dropping to his chest and staring fixedly at the floor.

Squeezing his hand again lightly, Draco drew his silent friend to the table, conscious of his mother's gaze upon them both. He didn't bother with words of reassurance and calm, attempts to ease Harry's discomfort. They'd all been said before. Instead, he settled them both down in their seats as though nothing were wrong; rather, as though it were an exceptional day in itself. For truly, despite the sadness he felt over Harry's insecurity, the unfounded excitement and joviality that manifested itself in him on Christmas Day could not be totally quashed.

'Mancy,' he barely spared a glance for the little house elf waiting attentively to the side of the table. 'Bacon and eggs for me. Poached in vinegar and a sprinkling of salt. And,' he flickered his eyes towards Harry, head still bowed, before requesting for him, ‘just some fruit and yoghurt. Apples, mostly.'

'Of course, Master Draco. Mancy will be but a moment.' The little house elf disappeared with a pop.

Draco met Narcissa's eyes across the table but neither of them spoke. Narcissa raised an eyebrow as her eyes flickered towards Harry, but Draco only shook his head, nearly imperceptibly. Mancy returned shortly, levitating the bowls of crispy coldness and steaming breakfasts to Harry and Draco respectively before topping up Narcissa's tea without comment. Draco nudged a fork and spoon towards Harry before raising his own cutlery and tucking in.

'Is father not yet awake?'

Narcissa, immediately following Draco's example of superficial conversation. She laughed quietly. 'Draco, regardless of the festivities of Noel, I have yet to see your father once arise before seven o'clock.'

'But it's...' Draco turned towards the bronze grandfather clock ticking almost inaudibly across the room from him. 'Seven o'clock exactly. Late riser or not, father has always promoted punctuality.'

Narcissa failed to hide her smile behind the rim of her teacup. 'Perhaps he will meet us in the parlor?'

Draco murmured noncommittally, turning back towards his eggs. Such was tradition. Draco and Narcissa would share breakfast - a remarkably good breakfast, he thought to himself. Perhaps they should consider bringing Mancy back to London - and Lucius would meet them for gift-giving almost on the dot. The rest of the day would be spent in idle relaxation, possible a stroll in the crisp morning, yet always in the company of the family. It was sedate, low-key, and yet the general atmosphere that shrouded each of them was infectious, only building in intensity at the shared feeling. Only once, however, could Draco remember Lucius sharing their morning meal on Christmas, and he put the reasoning down solely to the cold he had boasted that day which had resulted in a rather later awakening on his own part.

Scooping the last of the runny, sunflower-orange yolk onto his fork, exchanging brief comments with his mother as he did, Draco placed his cutlery neatly upon his plate and turned back towards Harry. It was saddening, to see his friend so closed off again in the face of something he reveled in so completely, but upon consideration he realised that it was likely the same response Harry had felt at the beginning of the Hogwarts year. Or meeting his new friends. Or starting flying. Or any number of novel experiences. The difference was that Draco could perceive the tension in his hunched shoulders, notice the wideness of his eyes and tightness of his jaw that he had never revealed before, and understand it. Not for the first time he felt appreciative of the changes his friend had undertaken in dropping the veils shrouding his emotions and allowing him to observe them so clearly, if purely for selfish reasons only.

Despite his hesitancy to partake in conversation, Harry had at least attempted breakfast. He nibbled like a rabbit on a quarter of apple speared through with a dessert fork, staring with glazed eyes towards the tabletop.

'Nearly done?'

Startling at the direct address, Harry nearly dropped his fork. Draco caught it before it could slip fully from his fingers. Harry offered a small, apologetic smile and dipped his chin. His hand slipped up to his collarbones, nails itching to dig into skin. It was a gesture that Draco had also become familiar with over the past weeks and a faint spark of memory recalled such motions also taking place at school. Without ceremony, Draco placed the fork back on the table and clasped the twitching fingers back in his own hand again, ignoring Harry’s start once more as though his motion was the most natural thing in the world.

It was odd. Draco would have been nothing but exasperated had he observed such a flighty and helpless response from anyone else. Surely such a display of frailty and lack in confidence bespoke nothing if not weakness and cowardice? Instead, he felt a faint twinge niggle in his chest. Shouldering it to the side, disregarding what he’d come to realize as his newfound protectiveness, Draco smiled at the dark-haired boy. The smile he received this time was thankful.

'Oh dear, there is truly nothing to be worried about.' Narcissa's face was a picture of sympathy, and without the slight telltale quirk of her bottom lip to indicate falseness. Draco could wager his own face mirrored his mother's. 'This is not a formal affair, Harry. Indeed, it is rather that we take pleasure in your company and wish to share the day with you. Yet if you at all find it too distressing, that the circumstances are uncomfortable, I assure you none of us would begrudge you the chance to seat yourself out from the proceedings.'

Draco suppressed a scowl of annoyance. His mother had basically given him a ticket out of Christmas, a celebration Draco was adamant Harry partake in. It would be Draco who he would share his first Christmas with, and Harry would enjoy it. He would.

Regardless, he held his tongue on a reply to Narcissa offer. Bit his tongue, actually. Not that anyone would notice. It was a good thing he did, too, for the ticket, as it were, seemed to harden Harry's wavering resolve.

'Thank you, Narcissa, but really, it's so nice of you to take me in and share everything with me. I can't even tell you...' Taking a deep breath, Harry seemed to steel himself. 'I really should be apologising. I'm sorry, I don't mean to cause any disruption. I'm just not very familiar with...' He trailed off again, looking thoroughly ashamed of himself.

Narcissa was evidently struggling to keep a scowl from her face, though Draco doubted it was directed to either Harry or himself. 'Of course. How could one expect you to be familiar with Christmas if you haven't celebrated it before?' The question sounded more like an accusation than anything. 'But please, do not apologise. I speak only in an attempt to ease your discomfort. We love your company.' Her face transfigured into a smile at this, and Draco was startled to realise something that had been staring at him in the face for days; Narcissa truly did love having Harry with them.

Rising to her feet, Narcissa rounded the table. Casting her own glance at the clock, she waved her hands in urging to the two boys as she approached them. 'There, past seven o'clock. You are permitted to move onto gift-giving without reprimand at this point.' Her face quirked to shake the reprimand from her words and opened her arms wide in an obvious gesture.

Rising to his own feet, Draco moved to embrace his mother. Propriety bespoke reluctance to conduct such acts of familiarity in public, which often carried itself over onto their private lives, but December the twenty-fifth was an exception. Everybody knew that.

Well, except for Harry. But Narcissa didn't even attempt to wrap the shorter boy in her arms, simply stroking a hand lightly across his head almost like one would a cat before gliding from the room. Harry didn't flinch from the touch; in fact, to Draco it appeared as if he was becoming almost comfortable with the contact.

'Are you finished? We can stay longer if you'd like.' Draco gestured towards the half-eaten bowl fruit and untouched yoghurt.

Harry shook his head, a smile wavering onto his lips. ‘No thanks. Sorry, I don’t really…’

‘That’s alright. I can just feel it; the excitement is rolling off you in waves. A lack of appetite is understandable.’ Draco smiled to take the sting out of his sarcasm. It worked, though. Harry’s smile firmed and widened ever so slightly. He followed with less resistance as they departed the room.

As one, the trio filed into the parlour. The elves had taken to the Christmas spirit with the same enthusiasm as a child in the festive season, yet Narcissa had restricted their decorations to a single room. Draco’s mother was not particularly open in displaying her enthusiasm, but even she could not deny the opportunity to embrace the sparkling theme.

A crackling fire lit the room with both warmth and light, denying the magical snow that fluttered from the roof to dissipate before it could reach head-height. A scene of dainty reindeer and Christmas harpies – the ever present accompaniment of the fabled white deer – twittered and twitched on the mantle piece, wading through a thin layer of ‘snow’ that adorned the marble. Wrath-like fairies – conjugations only – lazed around the room and sneezed silvery dust. Golden stars sparkled on the walls, many falling in shooting streams into the carpet and shimmering illusionary stardust onto the floor. Baubles floated around the wall sconces and elegant ribbons adorned chair legs and the arms of the couches.

In the corner of the room, a modestly sized tree posed, draped in silvers, greens and – dare he consider a breach in the colour scheme – even something that looked faintly red. Beneath the fringes of the fir tree were stacked piles of colourful packages, boxes and bundles slouching upon one another. A surplus, really, considering there were only four occupants of the house.

All of which, Draco noticed abruptly, were in the room. Perched in one of the cream armchairs beside the fireplace, Draco’s father gazed upon their entrance from over a steaming mug of coffee. Another tradition, for Lucius only ever drunk coffee on Christmas morning. Draco knew for a fact that there was more than a small splash of whiskey to add a different kind edge to the bitterness.

The Malfoy patriarch greeted his wife and son with a smile. Reserved, but a smile nonetheless. Placing the mug with deliberate care upon the coaster-laden coffee table, he rose to his feet and moved towards them. His arms enclosed gently around his wife, who returned the embrace in kind, and he planted a chaste kiss of her cheek before moving towards Draco. Draco released Harry hand momentarily to meet him.

‘You’ve once more managed to awaken surprisingly early, father. How admirable.’

Lucius frowned in mock scolding, enfolding Draco in that same reserved hug. There was warmth to it, however, that surpassed the familiar awkwardness of the embrace itself. ‘What sort of an attitude is that to take towards your father, hmm?’ His heavy-lidded eyes looked straight into Draco’s sparking with amusement. They were nearly of a height now, Draco realised with detached surprise. Perhaps one day he would even be taller. ‘What happened to your adoring respect?’

‘Well, it _is_ Christmas.’

The words caused everyone in the room to turn in amused surprise towards Harry. No one seemed more surprised than Harry himself, who flushed a deep shade of pink and clapped a hand over his mouth as though it could retract the words. ‘I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking. It was just what Draco said…’

Lucius was the first to respond. That sparkle of amusement in his eyes spread across his face, crinkling crow’s feet and widening lips. Even more surprising, he uttered a low chuckle. ‘No need to apologise. If you had not said as much, I assure you that my son would have.’

‘Yes, you stole the words right from my mouth.’ Draco grinned widely at Harry, who dropped his hand and made a feeble attempt at returning the smile.

‘I believe you are in sore need of another excuse, my dear.’

‘What is the need for reprimand this morning! First Harry, now you, Mother.’

Narcissa’s own eyes crinkled as she loosed a laugh. ‘Great minds think alike, do they not Harry.’ Harry could do nothing but nod shyly as she turned her warmth upon him.

‘Enough of this.’ Draco lifted his chin with mock pompousness, sniffing self-righteously. ‘I believe we have matters to attend to.’

‘Very efficient of you, Draco. You show great promise for the business world.’

Draco rolled his eyes at his father’s jibe and grasped Harry’s hand once more. He led him towards the armchairs ringing the fireplace where they both settled into plump cushions. ‘Now, the most important part of gift giving at Christmas is that you don’t care a bit whatever those you give the gifts think of your presents.’

‘It’s the thought that counts, not the gift itself,’ Narcissa chimed in as she glided in their wake, slipping into her own seat. Lucius sunk down similarly and took up his coffee once more.

‘Yes, so articulately put, Mother, thank you.’ Draco raised an eyebrow pointedly at the interruption before turning back to Harry. Despite the obvious nervousness, Draco noticed that his friend seemed to be very definitely struggling to keep his smile from spreading across his face. It was expected, of course. The Malfoys maintained decorum in every instance, even in private, yet the festive season seemed to blur the edges of just exactly what constituted proper.

‘Anyway, not that I’m doubting your ability to choose gifts-’

‘That’s what it sounded like to me.’

‘But,’ Draco raised his voice over Lucius’ snide mutter, ‘I wanted to reassure you before you break down under the nerves. Is that clear?’

Harry nodded shortly, sending an approving glance Lucius’ way. Draco was satisfied to notice that the walls of wariness and unfamiliarity seemed to be dropping between the two.

‘Alright! Now that we have that sorted.’ He clapped his hands expectantly and cast a glance over towards the tree. As if awaiting the call, bundles and crinkling wrappings levitated into the air and floated over to the quartet at the fireplace.

At Harry’s quizzical glance, Draco shrugged. ‘The house elves organise it. It makes it easier than sorting them individually.’

As he settled into his seat, awaiting the arrival of gifts with that inexplicable childish excitement that gripped him so irrationally every Christmas, Draco considered momentarily just how odd the setting would be to an outsider. It was loosened from the formalities that usually gripped his family, yet he realised that even without such constraints they followed a very set schedule, an order to their performance. It was so familiar and anticipated that Draco had never really considered it before, but seeing Harry’s bemused and slightly baffled expression he saw for the first time how odd it could appear. Not that it made him love it any less.

As always, leading the way, Draco raised a silver-clad gift into his hands and ceremoniously began the unwrapping process. Narcissa and Lucius, each with piles of gifts of their own, both raised their own, casting a glance towards one another as they did so. They always opened each others first; it was another one of their tradition.

Feeling Harry’s gaze upon him, Draco quirked an eyebrow. ‘What’s wrong?’

Harry dropped his eyes to the sizeable pile of gifts around him. ‘Um… Are they…?’

Draco paused as his fingers picked at the wrapping of the gift in his lap. ‘Yours?’

Hesitantly, bashfully, Harry nodded.

Breath catching in his throat for a moment, Draco considered that – horribly – this may be the first time that Harry not only celebrated Christmas but actually received gifts. The thought sent a twitch along his jaw which he resolutely ignored and he forced a carefree smile onto his cheeks. ‘Yeah. All yours.’

‘So many…’

‘Pansy and Blaise know you’re staying with me. And Hermione, Ron and Neville all sent something over. There’s a couple others that I’m not sure about…’ He trailed off, peering at the closed cards fastened to the wrapping paper curiously, but restrained himself. ‘But yes, all yours.’

Lifting his gaze from Harry’s presents, he was startled for a moment as his friend blinked rapidly and dropped his chin to his chest. It took only a moment to realise he was holding back tears. Reaching across the distance between them, Draco patted his knee gently. ‘Hey, if you don’t want them, if you don’t feel comfortable with it or something, I’m sure we could just let them know. Or I could just keep them for you. Either way.’

Harry huffed a faint laugh at the attempt at a joke, shaking his head. ‘Thanks for your generosity,’ a quirk of his lips spread a hesitant smile across his face that contradicted the faint sheen of tears, ‘but I’m just a bit overwhelmed, I think.’ Wiping a hand across his forehead and grazing fingers across his collarbone for a moment before he dropped them once more into his lap. He nodded his head towards Draco’s gifts. ‘Don’t let me hold you back.’

Casting a handful of glances back at his friend, ensuring that the bout of emotion had subsided somewhat, Draco turned back towards his gifts. It didn’t take long to become engrossed in the process, a progression assisted by the arrival of Lyssy who seemed to settle Harry enough for him to begin to unwrap his own gifts. Not for the first time Draco blessed the presence of the little familiar. He remembered being disconcerted by the green-eyed cat what seemed so long ago; now he couldn’t thank her existence enough.

It was a fairly impressive collection of gifts that he received, and one both he and his parents exclaimed and commented on with each unearthing. Pansy sent him a gorgeous pair of soft, bronze dragon-hide gloves, and Blaise a new wand holster with accompanying wand-care kit; his friend new how fastidious he was with the care of his wand. His father gifted him the latest broomstick, a Golden Arrow SX, and his mother a thick ermine cloak and exclusive membership to Marx Vadetta’s chain of restaurants, a rather exclusive company reputable for its high class and outrageously expensive cuisine.

Crabbe and Goyle sent him their customary stores of chocolate treats, and Nott a collection of colourful vials that he would enjoy analysing for function over the next few days. It was his own tradition between the two of them, despite their largely distant relationship; an interest in potions was one of their few common points. What was slightly unexpected was the gifts from the Gryffindors; Hermione loaded him with a stack of books – predominately Runes and Charms, the latter of which left him wincing slightly but still grateful – while Ron and Neville appeared to have pooled their expenses and sent him a rather large bag of…

‘Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes?’

Harry glanced up from the gift in his own lap to quirk his eyebrow at Draco questioningly. Narcissa and Lucius similarly turned towards him at his exclamation. ‘What is it, dear?’

‘I think…’ Draco reached his hand carefully into the depths of the bag, half expecting his fingers to be bitten off. One never knew with a Weasley. Instead, he unearthed a collection of boxes and bags, wrapped treats, bundles and oddly perfumed parcels each labelled in loud script and profusely describing the function of their product. ‘That joke shop.’

‘The new one at Diagon Alley? I remember reading it was the Weasley twins who established residency there.’ Lucius leant forward in his seat with uncharacteristic curiosity. Draco cocked his head towards him and Lucius shrugged. ‘Their business are reportedly doing exceedingly well, and word is that some of their inventions are rather… ingenious.’

Draco smirked with a predatory grin. ‘Ingenious, Father? Pray tell, who says as much?’ His father simply ignored him and went back to fastening his new brooch back onto his collar.

Casting a glance back at Harry, Draco felt his interest pique as he noticed the gift his friend was unearthing. He’d chosen sparkling silver packaging specifically and after great deliberation. Nestled in the unfolded paper was a black, braided collar of soft, ribbon-like material, alongside a pair of earrings bearing a kanji impressed into a perfectly shaped apatite. Similar spots of the blue-green gemstone were interwoven into the folds of the collar. They were beautiful really, even if Draco did say so himself.

Harry frowned quizzically at the set. Draco could almost see the thoughts passing through his head. _Yes, they were beautiful, if a little unconventional. And wearing something like the collar would seem a bit…_ Waiting just long enough for Harry to turn his questioning gaze towards him, Draco slipped from his seat to a crouch by the side of his friend’s chair.

‘Draco, what…?’

Draco leant forwards and picked up the collar with delicate fingers. ‘Now this,’ he threaded the soft smoothness through his fingers, ‘is pressed from the feathers of a cynogriffon. They are a very rare species, so it’s hard to get a hold of any samples of them, but feather plucking in moderation isn’t overly damaging so it’s permitted.’

Hearing a soft sigh of laughter behind him, Draco cast a half-hearted glare at his mother’s amusement before turning back to his friend. Harry was stroking a finger over the braided cord almost lovingly. _For truly,_ Draco acknowledged, _it is a little bit difficult not to touch the smooth softness_.

‘Cynogriffons communicate by telepathy. Or as close to telepathically was any creature can. What this is used for,’ with careful fingers, he eased the collar around Lyssy’s neck where the little cat perched on the side of the armchair. To her credit, Lyssy didn’t flinch, though Draco could have sworn she gave him a warning to keep his fingers to himself. ‘You place the collar on a non-speaking creature, and fasten the earrings in your own ears, and it forms a communication highway.’

Settling back on his haunches, Draco had to struggle to restrain the self-satisfied smile from spreading across his lips. It was quite a find, truth be told, and he had to order internationally from a Japanese seller to obtain them, but it was worth it. He knew both from his own observation and from Neville’s word on the matter that Harry seemed particularly taken with magical creatures studies. And then there was Lyssy – he still had to ask about that name – who clung to him like a shadow. All in all, Draco felt that the present was rather perfect.

Harry didn’t say anything for a moment, simply staring down at the apatite earrings and then at the collar around Lyssys neck. Draco felt his satisfaction dwindle slightly at the continued silence. At least, until Harry turned his eyes towards him. They glistened with a wondering light and though he didn’t smile, the pure awe radiating from him spoke well enough.

‘Draco, that…’

The grin spread widely of its own accord. ‘You like it?’

‘So I’ll… be able to talk to her?’ Harry’s mouth hung open slightly, a mimic of his wide eyes.

‘To a degree, yes. The seller said it was something of a chop-and-change from species to species; each perceives things a little differently, so it takes practice with each animal before ‘speaking’ as such comes naturally, but yes.’

‘That’s…’ Harry struggled to grasp for words. ‘That’s…’

‘Why don’t you try it?’

Nodding enthusiastically, Harry reached up a hand to the earrings in his ear. A flicker of uncertainty skittered across his eyes and for a moment Draco thought he would shut down again. He remembered, months ago, how Harry had said his uncle had given them to him. What if it was, like the glasses, a compulsive adornment?

He needn’t have worried. After a pause for consideration, Harry took a shaarp breath and unclipped the little silver knots from his ears and begun fastening the apatite studs in their place. The colour stood out starkly against his pale skin and dark hair. Draco felt his self-satisfaction blossom once more. A good gift indeed!

The thought had him turning back towards the sole remaining present beside his own chair. He had left Harry’s present until last, and the sight of his friend’s excitement at unwrapping that which he received elicited a stirring of his own enthusiasm once more. Slipping back into his chair, casting half a glance towards Harry as the dark-haired bowed his head over Lyssy with a focused stare, he began to unwrap the golden paper.

The almost cylindrical shape was long, nearly two feet, and heavy in the sort of dense-sturdiness of weighty material. Unwrapping the final sheets of paper, his breath caught as the object was revealed.

He only saw a fraction of it at first. A rich, deep scarlet, interwoven with silver and golden threads, composed the edges of what Draco realised was a rolled tapestry. Two polished, aged rungs of ebony protruded from each end, and grasping both with careful fingers, he unrolled the thick material reverentially.

The inside was even more gorgeous that the exterior suggested. Draco’s breath caught as his vision reflected an array of beautiful colours. Maintaining its warm, thick redness, broken by the flickers of glimmering gold and silver, the embroidery of the tapestry spread across like a scene from a frozen portrait. Except it wasn’t frozen, not really. Around the edging, a string of forget-me-nots and dandelions, red chrysanthemum and primrose entwined and roiled as though they grew and shifted with unnatural speed. Vines and leaves dangled and curled from the border as though falling towards the centre like hangings from a guttering and draped across letters woven in gold and silver at the centre.

The letters were in calligraphic script, so elaborate that for a moment Draco thought they may have been in English and he simply couldn’t read them. When he realised it was instead a compilation of Runes, of the _Merlecue_ alphabet, he felt his heart actively speed in tempo as the intense desire to unearth the secrets of the words arose within him. It was one of the main reasons he was so smitten with the subject as a study. Not only were runes, very literally, the language of magic, but it was also hypothesised to be the language of ancient wizards and witches. Real artefacts were not uncommon per se; it was finding the true diamonds in the pit of crystals that was difficult.

Without pausing to explain himself to his parents, and glancing only briefly over his shoulder to determine that Harry was still enraptured in what appeared to be a very fine study of the little black cat at his side, Draco strode from the room. His eyes flickered over the detailing of the runes, every unfurling petal of flowers hungrily so that he nearly stumbled as he made his way to his suite. He thanked foresight that he had brought his numerous Runes dictionary along with him; it was never quite so simple as a ‘translation’ but he had confidence in his abilities nonetheless.

Falling onto his bed – pristinely made, as he hadn’t slept in it in days – and spreading the four-foot long tapestry across the covers, he propped the dictionaries around him and fell into the familiar process of compare and revisit, word after word. He seemed to chew through the process and though it probably took longer than he realised Draco was so lost in his determination to decipher the meaning of the words that he couldn’t be sure just how long he was distracted.

When he quickly unscrambled what was evidently the title from the whole, Draco felt his breath catch in his throat. _He remembered…_

 _The Eternity Bond_. It had not been so long ago that they had discussed it, not even a month past. And Draco had only mentioned it in passing, how he had so wanted to forge such a bond with his parents, a bond stronger and more pure than any other…

Where did he even get this? The potion that provided the foundations of the bond was notoriously so old and dubiously transcribed that reprints in modern texts rarely bothered with it. The tapestry in his hands seemed to be an original even…

 _Where did he get the_ money _to buy something like this?_

Draco paused for a moment, contemplating, but not for long. The desire to know just what the words said urged him from his consideration.

Flicking once more between embroidered words and printed text, Draco gradually translated the piece. After a few more minutes of work, he leapt from his bed, gathered parchment, quill and ink, and jotted down each word as he unravelled it. It was difficult, as there were often a multitude of possibilities for each translation, but Draco felt he had enough experience to adeptly place the appropriate terms.

The solid, finely printed text that composed the primary body of the script unfolded in dribs and drabs as an incredibly complex potions recipe. Draco felt uneasy even reading about it; possibilities for error shrouded every step, and most expectedly so. At the bottom of the potion was a paragraph on the appropriate timing and accompanying enchantment for administration of the potion. Even that left him with a twinge of unease. The time between the consumption of the potion and the enchantment was crucial, and any stumbling over words or procedure could be disastrous. Funny, how a potion that professed to bind individuals in the deepest way possible was so difficult to produce.

What was truly interesting, however, was the final lines of the script. It seemed set apart from the potion and enchantment, and continued translation discovered that it was something of a poem, written in verse. Inking in the last words, Draco sat back and ran his eyes over the translation.

_ Purely in Love _  
_She is my mother,_  
_My sister, my daughter,_  
_My wife._  
_My dearest friend, she is my master;_  
_A harbinger of blessed freedom and blissful captivity._  
_I sought her safety, her enduring strength;_  
_She gifted me the liberty of breath itself,_  
_Opened wide arms to embrace as a desert welcomes the rain._

_My mother, I worship your every word;_  
_My sister, I support each desire that possesses you;_  
_My daughter, I cherish your very smile;_  
_My wife, you have my eternal devotion;_  
_My servitude, the loyalty of a bee to her hive;_  
_An oath to aid the endeavors of your whims;_  
_A shield to shelter from the blows that befall you,_  
_A blanket to stave off the wind that chills your bones._  
_I love in its entirety,_  
_A faithfulness without chains or regret._

It was a short, simple poem, any rhyme or rhythm lost in the translation. Yet something about it tugged at Draco’s heart, nudging the thudding muscle as though egging him onto a train of thought. The poem described a love that he wasn’t quite sure he understood, and seemed almost confusing in its all-encompassing acceptance. Yet what gripped him most were the final lines embroidered in simpler font, almost as an afterthought, beneath the elegant poem.

_For love is pure and untarnished by the corruption of intellect, defined only by the constraints that man sets upon it._

The final words seemed almost harsh. Cruel and blunt, when compared to the poem, yet raw and profound. _Love is pure and untarnished..._ Purity, without labelling, it would almost seem… The thought triggered a faint inkling of consideration that had been straining for attention for days now. In the contemplation of love, his mind turned not to his parents, those he had always longed to bond in a deepening of familial ties, but to Harry.

Harry, who knew him well enough to have given him with such a perfect gift. Who had erased the hated brand upon his forearm. The boy who fell into his embrace on the edge of a frozen gutter and sobbed uncontrollably, who held his hand as though it was a lifeline and gifted him with shy smiles that were incomplete yet so perfect.

And his mothers knowing smile suddenly seemed so understandable.

‘I think I might possibly…’

‘What?’

Draco nearly fell off the bed he was so startled. Dictionaries tumbled to the floor and it was only by chance that the tapestry didn’t follow. Grasping the bedpost to steady himself, Draco turned hurriedly towards the door and the figure standing framed within the doorway.

Harry wore a small smile, his perfectly flawed smile, his head questioningly. The apatite earrings glistened in his ears, half hidden by locks of black hair that had fallen from an elaborate braid that Draco hadn’t seen him wear before. Placed neatly on his nose were the glasses that Draco knew his mother had gifted him; thin, delicate, they suited him to a T, as Draco had known they would. In place of his robe, he wore a green knitted jumper boasting a golden H that was just slightly too big for him over jeans. His pale fingers curled just over the cuffs and fiddled unconsciously as he awaited Draco’s response.

He was utterly beautiful. _How have I not realised this before?_

Swallowing past a lump in his throat, Draco glanced quickly towards the tapestry spread across the bed before glancing back towards the doorway. ‘Where did you…?’

Harry dropped his chin, scuffing his toes on the floorboards. He shrugged. ‘I remembered you talking about the Eternity Bond, and then I remembered stumbling across this a few months ago at Hogsmeade…’

‘Months? You found this months ago?’

Harry nodded. ‘I have good memory?’ The statement, sounding like a question, was almost apologetic. ‘I just didn’t get it until a little while ago.’

Draco’s eyes were at war deciding whether to fix themselves upon the beautiful tapestry or the boy standing in his doorway. He settled for shifting between the two, and hated to think how his neck was being compromised by the rapid movement.

‘Good memory, huh. I’ll say…’

There was silence between them, though not uncomfortable. It simply…was. Finally, Harry broke it. ‘Your mother wanted me to ask you if you were ready to come downstairs for some lunch.’

‘Lunch? Already?’

Harry nodded, a little exasperated. ‘You’ve been up here for quite a while.’

Draco blinked in surprise. Certainly, quite a while if it was lunchtime. ‘Um… yeah, I’ve just finished.’

Smiling again, Harry paused for a moment, as though awaiting a reply, before turning from the room. ‘I’ll just… go downstairs then?’ He left before any reply could be voiced.

Draco was left with an afterimage of his friend impressed in his vision. His revelation still rocked him to his core, but in an impossibly good way. He couldn’t believe… How had… When did he become so blind?

With a shake of his head, Draco carefully rolled the tapestry up into its original scroll. It probably had a Preservation Charm on it, but he still didn’t want to risk damaging it. With a final stroke of the soft fabric, he pushed himself from the bed and hastened after Harry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: As always, please comment and let me know what you think of the story. I love hearing from everyone, and really, really appreciate the time taken to send me a buzz. Thanks again to all my wonderful readers!


	14. Karma and Vipaka

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Just a short one, I apologise. It sits right between two very long chapters that I couldn't seem to find the right point to chop at. So I'm making up for it by updating early :) The next chapter should be up before the end of next week.
> 
> WARNING: this chapter contains depictions of violence.

A crack ripped through the air of sleepy, suburban Paris. The snow was thickly laden upon the ground and still drifted from the sky in twirling flakes to disappear into the white carpet that adorned frozen front lawns. There was not a person, resident or interloper, in sight; understandably, given that it was approaching two o’clock in the morning.

Well, there no figure that could be _seen._

Shrouded by a cloak of disillusionment, two figures made their way down the ice-slick pavement. It was for the best, perhaps, as an onlooker may have been startled that the thin robes that both wore kept them from bodily shivering and cringing upon themselves, shoulders hunched. Not even puffs of cloudy breath escaped their lips; the mist would have been an unwanted indicator of their presence.

Pausing before one house, the modest residence barely discernible from its fellows, the shorter figure paused. Placing a gloveless hand on the shoulder of her fellow, she peered at the letterbox before nodding and lead the way up the path to the front door. Her boots would have clacked in an announcement of her presence as she glided elegantly up the steps had she not similarly muffled any noise they could make.

Another pause before the front door, not in hesitancy but to resume composure. The woman lifted her hand and the wand it held and pointed towards the door.

_“Alohamora.”_

A faint click, followed by the twist of the handle by invisible fingers, and the door swung inwards. A cold draft followed the woman much like the silent figure of the man behind her.

The hallway was much as Narcissa to Lucius had described from her brief glimpse of Harry’s memory. She was always like that; in her distress, she focused upon the small, the irrelevant details, that held little import. Anything to distract from the centrepiece of what she had witnessed. There was no squat table or vase in the hallway – evidently the man had not seen to replacing them after the first had been broken – but other than that it was the same. A feat not difficult to accomplish given that such sameness was stark and barren, bereft of personalisation and only a plain mirror, square adorning one wall.

Striding down the hall with purpose, Lucius trailing behind her, the witch glanced in each door as she passed it. One, a small and simple bedroom; another, a chilling bathroom with a distasteful smattering of utilities around the faucet and a bitter reek that bespoke neglect. A kitchen, a lounge room, a dining room and, finally, a closed door.

“Narcissa, perhaps I should.”

Lucius kept his voice low and careful, as though he stepped carefully around a potentially wild animal. Narcissa spared him not a glance and barely a thought. ‘No, it is my decision, and I will see it through to its end.’

“And just what, pray tell, is this end?”

His wife gave no answer this time, but she did shoot him a penetrating glance. Lucius dropped his chin in a nod of acceptance and spoke no more.

Pressing on the handle, Narcissa followed the swinging door into the room. It was dimly lit but the interior perceivable given the moonlight streaming through the open window. How the man considered it a good idea to leave a window open in the dead of winter was beyond Lucius, but he considered as he wrinkled his nose following in his wife’s wake that he should be thankful nonetheless. The crispness of the night air swept away a reek that would have clouded the room had it been closed. It was a smell that Lucius, unfortunately, recognised; the staleness of alcohol was a stench one was unlikely to forget.

The man on the bed was smothered in a cocoon of blankets. Additional blankets lay strewn across the floor, interwoven with crumpled clothing and discarded shoes. More limp articles clothing spilled from an open cupboard that bespoke chaos at a single glance. It was clear that either the man had been in a hurry to upend the contents of his wardrobe or he had maintained a wary distance from orderliness for quite some time.

Hitching her robes slightly, as though stepping through a putrid puddle, Narcissa edged her way towards the bed. Lucius, in an unconsciously protective response, followed a step behind. The nearer he drew, the stronger the smell, and that, coupled with a glimpse of the crinkled face and mussed hair, so similar to that which his wife had described with such seething ferocity, caused his stomach to clench uncomfortably.

His discomfort was evidently but a shadow of his wife’s rising hatred. On top of the nauseous expression that tightened her face, Narcissa’s unforgettable and tightly tethered, dozing creature of hatred and cold fury visibly shuddered into awakening. Lucius could almost see the thoughts course through her mind: this man, this creature, lay so defencelessly in his bed. So open, so trusting in the feeble protections of his four walls. A trust that for once Narcissa, his tender hearted, loving wife, felt no compunctions in abusing.

She had considered at length, and usually aloud to Lucius, exactly what punishment she would inflict upon the man. Her conclusions were apt, and he couldn’t but agree with them in the majority. Pushing the man through the legal system, whether it was Muggle or Wizarding, would not be enough. The conflict of the two peoples would urge to the side of minimalistic, of wary caution, and it was more likely than not that the man would receive only the bare scrapings of the charges he deserved.

Wizards and Muggles always sought whatever route led to the least confrontation between their two peoples.

And yet, the punishment Lucius knew she so longed to deliver did not seem appropriate either. How was death – even following extended torture – anything compared to a life of torment and fear, a life that he had inflicted upon a boy no older than eleven? Narcissa was a fiercely protective woman, and of children most prominently. That she now knew Harry, had come to care for him as Lucius could so discern… he could read the guiltless desire within her eyes, how she longed to break the mans mind under an endless string of assaults, shedding her kind exterior to reveal the base instinct of a protective mother beneath. But even that did not seem enough. Why should he escape into insanity when his victim had to live on with the memories of his abuse?

Extending her wand, Narcissa pressed the point between the ridges of the sleeper’s furrowed brow. The wrinkles deepened for a moment under the soft pressure and the man stirred slightly. A firmer press of the wood into pliable skin and a moan dribbled from between chapped lips. Even in his drunken state, the unexpectedness of the uncomfortable touch was enough to awaken him.

Eyelids blinked open in flutters, pale blue eyes hazy and watery. It took a moment for the man to gain his bearings, and when he did he turned his gaze towards the woman looming above him. His brow crinkled further, yet with only confusion, not fear.

_“Que…?”_

_“Falso memento.”_

A gasp shuddered from the man’s lips. If his brow was wrinkled before, now it was a riot of pained clenches and trembling muscles. His eyes snapped shut and fingers rose from the depths of his cocoon, only to grasps feebly at the upturned corner of sheets.

Narcissa watched passively as her spell took effect, as the gasps and trembles evolved into full-body twitches and moans of distress, but Lucius could see the tightness in her shoulders from his onlooker status behind her. Idly, she dropped her wand to her side. It was not perfect, not enough, but it was good enough. That she considered as much almost made Lucius cringe at the possibilities of what she had done. Almost, but not quite.

“What did you give him?”

Lucius’ soft voice contrasted starkly to the pitiful whimpers of the man writhing with increased intensity in his bed. Though Lucius knew that she had hardly grown to tire from the sight, would never to hide her gaze in guilt or sympathy, Narcissa detached herself from her observation and turned towards her husband.

“I gave him what he deserves.”

Though he nodded obligingly, Lucius refused to drop the matter. “Which he undoubtedly does. But what do you feel he deserves?”

“Far more than I have given him, unfortunately.” Turning back towards the man, who had begun to convulse in thrashing jerks, Narcissa cocked her head idly. She had never been one to take pleasure from inflicting pain, but in this instance Lucius thought she looked almost… satisfied. In a twisted, contemptuous way. “I gave him memories. Memories I have fabricated, modeled on those he has inflicted upon Harry. At present, I am dragging him through a youth of fear and pain, of constant terror and utter despondence. Just what he subjected Harry to. An… alternate reality to his past, one that I will force down his throat until he _chokes_ on it.” Her voice was a bitter spike of cold fury. “And he will have to live with those experiences for the rest of his life. Live with what he has done to Harry as though it were done to himself.”

“And you expect him to live through such? I would not have considered him strong enough to continue in the aftermath of such a past.”

Narcissa smiled thinly. “I will not allow him to end it himself. I have my curses. He should not be afforded such a luxury.”

The silence that followed was broken only by the squeak of bedsprings and the choking pants of the man as he writhed in his bed, sweat dripping in thin dribbles down his face. Narcissa watched as his struggles became more and more feeble, and Lucius watched his wife. Finally, when silence fell once more, he spoke. He felt that… he had to.

“Narcissa, you cannot avenge them all.”

The witch did not bother to glance towards her husband, gazing fixedly on the pale and sweat-slick face before her. “Avenge them all?”

“Harry. The children like him. The survivors, young and old.” Lucius paused briefly, fighting to keep his voice as gentle as possible; his qualms over such infliction may not be as great as Narcissa’s, but he could appreciate the pain she felt. Narcissa had _always_ wanted to save people, protect and comfort those objected to pain and trauma. It was the sole reason she practiced in medical Legilimancy. It was one of the reasons she so struggled as the wife of a Death Eater. “It is not your responsibility.”

Narcissa closed her eyes briefly as she visibly fought the rising tide of fury. Not cold, this time, but bubbling hot. After a time, old anger can spark anew in a fiery heat. Narcissa knew this all too well. “I know it is not.”

Lucius fixed his eyes upon his wife, attempting to follow the train of her thoughts. “They are not the same, Narcissa. Harry is not Medea.” Narcissa flinched at the name, a startling as though slapped. Lucius forced himself to continue, though it pained him for the pain it so obviously elicited from his wife to recall the one patient she had been entirely unable to help. “Their circumstance may be similar, but they are not the same person. Harry is stronger than she. Perhaps not in every way, but in this. He is not one to seek vengeance.” Lucius paused for a moment. “Or perhaps that makes him weaker.”

“I do not think it is a matter of strength and weakness.” Narcissa swallowed as she struggled to maintain her composure. Her voice was strained, wavering with the intensity of her suppressed emotion. “Simply a difference in character. No, Harry is not, I believe, one to pursue vengeance, but neither is he one to fall victim to the wounds his experience has inflicted upon him. She was not capable of such. Her anger was too great.”

“Do you believe that this will truly help him, then?”

Narcissa glanced sideways at her husband. She didn’t trust herself to face him full-on, not without risking unleashing her anger full ball. “It will remove the monster from his past.”

“You intend to tell him?”

Shaking her head, Narcissa pointedly ignored Lucius’ insinuating. “No, I could not inflict that upon him.”

More silence. And finally, “you can take this for yourself, Narcissa. For you. It need not be solely for Harry’s sake.”

For he understood, Lucius did, in a way he had been teetering on the edge of understanding for days now. Narcissa _needed_ this. This man, this terrorist… he embodied every villain that assaulted the traumatised clients of his wife’s past, every father swimming in his cups that lashed out with a fist, every brother that shifted the blame onto the burdened shoulders of a withering soul, every mother who cast their child aside to seek her own happiness. Every monster who dared to touch a child in pursuit of their own pleasure. The though quelled Lucius from insisting his wife restrain herself, that she let it go, that the monster wasn’t her own, that it wasn’t her fight.

Because it was. To Narcissa, the monster before her was very real, and very personal.

It was now appeared to be a physical effort for Narcissa to restrain her anger. Her teeth clenched in a bulge of her cheek, fingers gripping white-knuckled around her wand as she visibly fought to keep it lowered at her side, fought to contain the hexes that longed to burst forth. “For myself…” She laughed lowly, an empty sound.

“I know you struggle to accept that you could not help, that you can’t help, all of them. But Medea…. Narcissa, you were only young –“

“Medea was only young! Only a _child!”_ It spewed forth. The anger, the hatred, the regret. The baseless guilt. “She was only a child, she did not understand, could not cope, with that which was inflicted upon her. And she was _punished_ for the only way she could continue to exist!”

Lucius, in a reversal of their usual roles, maintained his calm. “And you were not the one to sentence her to such a listless life for her misguided vengeance. But that is neither here nor there. It was not your responsibility to save her –“

“Then whose was it?!” Her voice was not loud. Narcissa was never loud. No, it was rather a ferocious hiss, the bite of a taunted snake. A sound Lucius had never once heard her utter before. Yet her bottled fury did not even consider the unnaturalness. “There are many people to blame, yet no one to take the punishment! None save for a poor girl driven into insanity by the traumas of her past. It was _not her fault,_ she was not in her right mind when she –“ Narcissa gasped as she fought to suppress the flow of her words. Her body was trembling, visibly shaking in anger, and support her though he wished to, it was all Lucius could do not to turn tail and flee the room. “It was not her fault, yet no one saw, no one cared. He was gone and she still hurt, there was no one left. No one left to. Take. His. Punishment!”

With a jerk of her arm, her wand snapped forward and aimed at the man lying limply in his bed. " _Crucio!"_

There was barely a pause before the screaming began. A shriek, far louder than Narcissa’s hissed tirade. The man’s back arched, bowing, and he bared teeth savagely. His face distorted into a mask of pain to smother the misery and despair that had drawn it previously.

He screamed. He screamed and screamed, until his voice gave. And even then he screamed on, a voiceless puppet straining beneath the rigid point of Narcissa’s wand as veins bulged and capillaries burst. His skin darkened to a sickly patchwork of reds, white and spider webs of purple before Narcissa finally lowered her wand. The woman panted as though from physical exertion, eyes wide and trails of salty water dribbling down her cheeks.

“All of them, younger and older, as children… Medea. So much was stolen from them, from her, and yet… I could do nothing… Nothing, not even to protect her from herself. And when the opportunity arose, for justice to finally be served, it was taken from her. With a well-aimed curse to the head, and she was not even aware of what she was doing. A single moment of her grief, of her insanity –“ The quivering witch closed her eyes, dropping her chin as her fingers loosen from the wand. The rod teetered for a moment, before it slid from her grasp.

Lucius captured it in his fingers, caught before it could drop to the floor. He placed the wand into his own pocket before looping both arms around his wife’s shoulders. He was not one for embraces, affectionate or supportive, but it felt right to offer as much now. The fiery fury, the madness of grief long in coming, had fallen from Narcissa as quickly as it had come. He would not lie to himself and say he was sad to see it go; the image of his wife so wrought with hatred and malice, her protectiveness and sorrow sparked to a dragon-like intensity, was so unlike the woman he knew, the woman she was. And all because of an ancient grief, a pain, that had been dwelling within her for so long.

Before them, lying as limply as a ragdoll in the tangle of his bedding, Stephen Defaux was a shattered mess. His limbs twisted unnaturally, skin still awash in sickly tones. Blood dribbled from his nose, his ears, his eyes, and if not for the faintest movement of his chest Lucius would have believed him dead.

He certainly looked worse off than many dead men Lucius had seen. And he had seen his fair share.

He spoke almost without realising it. “It is not your fault. You can’t save them all.” Lucius knew the guilt, the sadness, still resided within his wife. Not for the shattered figure before them – never – but for those she simply could not reach.

Not even bothering to fight it, Narcissa only nodded. Not in acceptance but merely acknowledgement. She leant into Lucius’ warmth for support more than comfort; her legs threatened to give out, as though all energy had been drained from her frame.

They remained as such for only moments before a sound caught Lucius’ ear. A faint rapping on the door, a muffled phrase that sounded like a question. Peering towards his wife’s face, her head similarly turned towards the door, he gave her a final squeeze.

“We seemed to have overlooked the practicality of a Muffling Charm.”

Narcissa breathed a puff of humourless laughter. “That we did. It is natural to assume that someone would have heard the scream.” She turned towards the man lying motionless on his bed, not even a whimper emitted by his broken voice. The trickle of blood oozed thickly from his nose. Hatred still smouldered in her eyes, yet had frozen back to its icy hardness.

Without another word, the two clasped hands and, with a crack, disappeared from the bedroom.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Before anyone says anything - if anyone was going to - on the randomness of Narcissa's motivation, I'd just like to detail my thoughts behind it.  
> Narcissa, at least in this story, is a very protective person. She's had a career in helping people magically recover from mental disorders and past traumas, both magical and otherwise. Her anger on Harry's treatment is as much because of the similarity of his situation to some of her clients in the past. Her 'taking out her rage' upon Stephen is as much a way to relieve some of the pain she feels for each of those she had tried to help in the past.  
> Personally, I'm not overly fond of characters randomly getting affronted on someone else's behalf, even if it is for a very good reason. I don't think that, in reality, without some additional reasoning behind it, Narcissa would be likely to have acted vengefully to such a degree for someone who, though she likes, she doesn't really know all that well. 
> 
> Also, just in regards to a couple of comments I've received, yes, what happened when Snape went to the talk to Harry's family will arise, but I enforce that this is - unfortunately - not a big part. All will be explained in future chapters, but just to summarise, this is not, nor faintly resembling, a Severitus fic. Yeah, I like Snape's character and all, but he doesn't play that big of a role in the story. I always saw him as almost a little reluctant to even help Draco in canon; I don't know if that's my perspective alone, but that's how I see it. So yeah, sorry to disappoint anyone.
> 
> Oh, and thank you to everyone who commented on the last chapter! Everyone was so nice; I was a squirming mess of giggling delight reading every single comment!


	15. An Act So Muggle

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: This is a chapter that I hold very near and dear to my heart. I couldn't seem to stop writing, so as a result it ended up quite long. I hope you enjoy it. Please let me know what you think down the bottom, or if you have any comments or questions. I love hearing from everyone, even if it's just a word or two.

“I still don’t understand why I’m not going. It is not _fair.”_

Draco swallowed past the lump in his throat as he posed the statement that was almost a whine for the tenth time in as many minutes. Narcissa stood before him, an exasperated expression on her face, and shared a look that Draco couldn’t quite understand with her husband.

Draco closed his eyes, dropping his chin and gritting his teeth in anticipation of denial. His mother had refused his pleas since they had received the fire call from his aunt Bellatrix that morning; his father was to attend a meeting of the Death Eaters and though it wasn’t stated explicitly, the two-person portkey that Lucius had pulled from his pocket upon request to transport them directly – for apparently the visitation was anticipated – indicated that Draco was to accompany him.

Being deliberately obtuse, Narcissa had immediately stepped in and informed her husband that she, not Draco, would accompany him. Though not a Death Eater herself, the ties she had to those on the inner circle and her public face made her a pivotal contributor all the same. The Dark Lord may be disgruntled by Draco’s absence, but his mother’s presence would be sure to diffuse at least some of the anger.

Draco had immediately objected. Naturally. What kind of a person would he be if he allowed not only his father’s departure into the snake pit but his mothers too? And when it should have been him going? He had felt anxiety roil in his gut, felt the sweat of fear dribbling down his back and sticking robes to flushed skin. His family, they were leaving him and walking into the hands of the Devil himself, and he would _not_ do nothing.

Yet Lucius had immediately agreed with Narcissa’s suggestion, and as the man with the portkey, his decision held sway. Hence, Draco had spent the entire morning arguing with his parents in an attempt to get them to see reasons, to allow him to take one of their places if he could not fill both. But to no avail.

“Draco, this is unseemly. You are behaving like a child, protesting of fairness when the decision has already been made.” Narcissa spoke with exasperation, but love and fondness vas evident in the reassuring smile she afforded him as she slipped dark leather gloves onto her elegant fingers. Turning towards her husband, she straightened his cloak, settling it properly upon his shoulders, before grasping his hand and sliding to his side.

Draco grit his teeth to prevent his chin from trembling. A child? Well, if it would keep them from leaving, would make them see reason, he would be blubbering like a toddler in a moment, regardless of how humiliating it would be. But he wouldn’t, because long experience insisted that when his mother and father made a decision, they could not be swayed.

He closed his eyes, squeezing them briefly before stepping forwards. In one swift motion, he engulfed his mother in an embrace, squeezing her briefly before folding his father similarly. Hugging was not a common occurrence between their family nowadays, not since Draco had started school, and he’d always largely objected to such private displays of affection, but in that moment he almost couldn’t let go. The warmth of their patting arms carried something other than simply the heat of their bodies.

“Stay safe. Please, _please_ stay safe.”

He opened his eyes to identical expressions of sympathy. Sympathy for _him,_ when they should be concerned with themselves. Lucius simply nodded, but Narcissa took it upon herself to stroke the side of his head. “It is only for the day, Draco. We will return by portkey before ten o’clock tonight. You shall see, there is nothing to be afraid of. It is only a routine meeting. And besides,” she turned pointedly towards Lucius and Draco got the feeling there was more to the stare than met the eye, “it will allow us to send our request to Albus Dumbledore. International communication is dubious at best. This is an opportunity to organise a meet before school resumes.”

Draco nodded, unable to speak past the swelling of the lump in his throat. Defiance had, somewhere in the last half an hour, slipped into grudging acceptance, and he couldn’t restrain the sadness that enveloped him as a result. Narcissa seemed to see this, for her tone picked up almost comically.

“Right! Now, you two behave in our absence. I do not wish to return to find the manor burnt to the ground.”

A cough of laughter managed to croak past the unwieldy lump. “Burnt to the ground? And how, Mother, would I achieve as much when I cannot even use my wand.”

“Oh, I’m sure you could find a way.” Another warm smile, another stroke on his cheek, and Lucius muttered a password into the silver spoon portkey clenched in his fist, Narcissa’s fingers curled around his. In a swirl of magic, more silent than Apparation, they disappeared.

Draco was silent, staring at the spot on the floor where his parent had stood. Strangely enough, with their disappearance also disappeared the urge to break down in a ball of weeping and thrash like a baby. The sadness and fear was still there, stronger than it had been in some time, and yet… His mother’s words – a simple reassurance though they were, for no one could ever fathom exactly what would occur at the meetings – always managed to comfort him somehow.

When cold fingers slipped into his hand, he nearly flinched. Glancing to his side, he met Harry’s concerned gaze, peering at him intently through the reflective shine of his lenses. They truly did suit him perfectly. Delicate and angular, just like his features, and made of hardened welding-vine that reflected every faint change in colouration of the plant even when baked to a hardness to rival steel. Draco found that he didn’t mind the glasses, even if he did prefer Harry without them. They didn’t really hide anything.

“They _will_ come back. You know they will.”

In that moment, Draco was thankful that his friend didn’t waste time with inane questioning and formulaic attempts at comfort and consolation. He thought he would have become angry if someone, anyone, had asked him if he was alright. Oddly enough, such never seemed to occur to Harry to ask. Perhaps he figured that he could deduce whether someone was ‘alright’ well enough without clarifying.

As it was, Draco felt himself ease just slightly more with just the simple phrase. So simple, it was, that he marvelled it had such power to affect him. As always, Harry provided the perfect Distraction from whatever mess he found himself in. It was only more recently that he realised he actually enjoyed the Distraction. Did that truly make it a diversion? Disregarding the thought as pointless, he gave Harry a smile and allowed himself to be drawn onto the double couch and back to their abandoned chess match.

The Christmas parlour, as it had so been dubbed in the days since, had become something of a base for the pair of them. Harry had mentioned an inclination to stray from the confines of his room on Boxing Day, and since they had barely spent any time in there. To sleep, of course, and just as naturally Draco slept with him, but otherwise they alternated between the library, the parlour, and wandering outdoors when it was not too cold to freeze them in their tracks.

To Draco’s wonderment and secret relief, he found that even after his revelation on Christmas day he had been able to act naturally around Harry. And he could act as such because he simply was; there was nothing to be ashamed of about it, and he didn’t even really feel embarrassed. True, he hadn’t told his friend what he felt, what he thought he felt, but that was as much due to the fact that he wasn’t sure he could really explain it as any hesitancy over his speculation as to the other’s standpoint.

For yes, he realised that he loved Harry. But just what that love was he wasn’t quite sure. Just as the poem had said, just as the final lines in informal embroidery at the bottom indicated, it seemed to be something of a blind, directionless love that he couldn’t quite put a name to. And wouldn’t the author of the little poem be happy about that?

When he considered it, Draco supposed that he could even see Harry as fitting into each of the roles the poem had specified. His friend, of course; he loved him dearly as a friend, even with such a short period that they had known each other for. As a brother, certainly. They got on far too well to not consider their friendship bordering on such. Besides, Harry was becoming increasingly comfortable with his jibing retorts, something that – though he had never experienced before personally – seemed to ring true of brotherhood. He almost resembled Blaise in that matter.

As a child… Draco certainly felt protective enough, there was no point even attempting to deny that. And as a father? It was probably the most confusing of the references, but he could even see how the protectiveness was reversed at times. The memory of the removal of his mark and Harry’s determination, as well as more recently at that first dinner between his father and his friend, when he had actually seemed to become _angry_ at a point… Draco wasn’t entirely sure, but perhaps, yes, even then.

And as a lover? It was that consideration which Draco took the most time over, and not only because of how it would effect those around him. Such relationships were not shunned in Wizarding society – far from it – but neither were they deemed entirely acceptable. Especially in pureblood families, there was a strong emphasis upon preserving the bloodlines and maintaining magical competency for generations to come. Draco wasn’t sure how his mother and father would respond to the claim that he loved Harry, let alone viewed him as a lover. He hoped that they would be accepting, and remembering the amused smiles and knowingly raised eyebrows he suspected that his mother would be accommodating. His father was a different matter, more set in his ways. Draco wasn’t yet certain how Lucius would respond; his father liked Harry, Draco knew, but did he like him that much?

For himself, the consideration set him at a point somewhere between euphoria and horror. As though laying claim to the possibility had awakened something in him, it felt as though every moment in Harrys presence, even when the other boy was not paying attention to him, was a joy. On the flip side, the potential for everything turning pear-shaped, for his feelings to not only be diverted but rejected, was terrifying. He doubted that Harry had it in his character to do so brutally and with anything but absolute compassion, but still…

At least the internal war didn’t set him on edge. It was strange; he was aware of the silent battle raging, yet felt totally calm, as though he was simply an onlooker awaiting the outcome of the contest with mild interest and little investment. It was a blessing, of sorts. He found he was still able to enjoy his everyday life without the cloud of uncertainty hanging over him, a fact that he was aware was unusual in itself. Weren’t people supposed to become lovesick when they were unsure in such situations?

Draco found he didn’t really care. So long as he could still enjoy Harry’s company, still spend time with him, Draco was content. Not completely satisfied, certainly, but content enough to thoroughly beat his small friend time and time again at wizards chess.

“I just don’t think I have a strategic mind,” Harry admitted, nudging a resilient pawn that was attempting to walk on its hands in the absence of its shattered legs. . He sighed, and shared a glance with Draco over the rubble of the ‘broken’ pieces, the second destruction of his troops in an hour. They’d settled into the game as a means of occupying their time, and it had mostly worked. Draco would have preferred something like homework to consume his attention, but a constant study companion actually set their work pace much faster

“Yeah, I’d gathered as much.” Though still aware of the persistent worry nestled in his chest, Draco had settled enough to resume something of his normal attitude. It didn’t stop him thinking every few minutes of exactly what his parents were doing at that moment, but he survived. Harry’s presence was a big contributor to that.

“You’re supposed to say ‘oh, you’ll get there in the end,’ but-“

“I don’t think you ever will. You’re not reckless enough.”

“Is that so?”

Draco nodded, slumping back into the leather back of his seat. “You need to learn the value of sacrifice.”

Harry frowned at that, sliding the persistent pawn back across the board from where it had dragged itself defiantly towards the cavorting enemy. “No, I don’t think I could sacrifice someone intentionally.”

“It’s just a game, Harry.”

“Yes, but the players move and talk on their own. That hits a little too close to home for me.”

“We just need to work on your heartlessness.”

The boys shared a smile, falling into silence. As Harry worked at separating the black from the white rubble, Draco glanced out the window behind him. It was a beautiful day. The sun streamed into the parlour and illuminated the glittering baubles on the still-standing tree, casting the conjured fairies into invisibility and urging the reindeer and harpies to sigh in relief in their beds of snow. It was almost a waste to spend it inside, despite the thick layer of snow that blanketed the grounds.

“Hey, Harry.”

“Hmm?” Harry didn’t even look up from his sorting.

“We should go outside.”

Harry raised his head and glanced out the window, following Draco’s directive nod of the head. He slowly nodded his own in agreement. “It might even be warm.”

Draco snorted. “Well, not warm, but not likely to freeze us to death.” He slouched further into the seat, bellying his enthusiasm for a stroll. “It’s a pity we’ve traipsed just about everywhere in the grounds we possibly could. There really isn’t much else to see.”

Shrugging in half-hearted agreement, Harry dusted his hands of the remaining rubble. “It’s still beautiful. Everywhere in Paris is beautiful.”

Another snort from Draco drew Harry’s gaze. ‘The Muggle city is beautiful?’

“I thought you said you weren’t anti-Muggle.’

“I’m not. Not really.” At Harry’s dubious stare, he continued a vehement “I’m not. I dropped such pretences long ago. But that doesn’t mean they don’t make a mess of their cities.’

Sighing in exasperation, Harry leant forward and poked Draco’s forehead with a finger. “Have you even seen Paris?”

Draco grinned, secretly enjoying the banter. That Harry had touched him on his own in a way aside from a simple handhold, even if simply in jest, only added to his enjoyment. “ I don’t need to. It’s a Muggle city.”

Harry shook his head, rolling his eyes.

“I saw that. Your glasses are transparent, you know.”

“I meant you to see it.” Leaning against the couch face first, arms propped across the back and legs tucked beneath him like a child, Harry laid his head onto the soft leather and turned towards Draco. “I think you’d be surprised if you actually took a look. Just because its different from a wizard’s city doesn’t mean it isn’t impressive.”

Draco pondered for a moment. It was true, he didn’t dislike Muggles. Not really, anyway; he’d been telling the truth when he claimed that the pretences of ‘hatred’ he’d exhibited in the past were in the past. Besides, the very fact that the Dark Lord despised them was enough of an attraction to their race itself. Draco didn’t love them, but he didn’t… hate them either. That didn’t mean that he had any respect for their abilities, in architecture or otherwise. But if Harry said so…

“Alright. Show me the city.”

“What?” Harry’s picked his head up from the back of the lounge, eyebrows rising.

“Show me everything I’m missing.” Draco smirked. “Dazzle me with their wonders.”

Harry paused for a moment, silent, a bemused expression on his face. “Draco, your mother doesn’t want you going outside during the day –“

“Because of the Death Eaters, I know. But if, hypothetically, all of the Death Eaters are at a meeting?”

It was Harry’s turn to snort, a strange sound coming from him and amusing in being so. “I’m pretty sure there are more Death Eaters than would attend a single meeting.”

“Even so, their numbers would be lessened greatly.”

He couldn’t help himself. Now that the possibility had presented itself, Draco was a dog with a bone. Not that the Muggle city itself interested him particularly, but the chance to get out of the house was certainly appealing. Besides, though he worried, his natural disgruntlement over being denied by his parents demanded that he do something irrational and prohibited. It was a shame that Harry was so conservative on the matter –

“Alright.”

Well, maybe not that conservative.

* * *

“It’s… tall.”

“Yes, it is.”

“Really… really tall. And big.”

“Yes, it is that too.”

Draco stared directly upward at the Eiffel Tower, mouth open slightly in an expression that was not wonderment and so focused that he barely heard Harry’s replies.

“I mean, it’s nearly as tall as the Shard, and wizards built most of that. I didn’t think Muggles could build something so…”

‘Big and tall?’

Turning an exasperated frown onto his friend, he caught the faint glimpse of a smile before Harry ducked his chin. “Actually, I was going to say structurally complex.” He turned his eyes back up to the tower once more.

He would never admit it, but Draco was impressed. When they had left the house, rugged in more layers than was probably entirely necessary – Harry had eventually disputed the continued addition of garments when Draco had attempted to outfit him with a second pair of gloves – he had supposed them to engage in little more than a short, refreshing walk, avoiding the crowds and looping back to the manor before it began to snow again. For, even if only briefly, the sky appeared to be holding off from it’s sleepy flaking

It was still freezing, even with the sun raining down merrily upon them. Draco had made sure to complain to Harry of the chill at least three times before they left the actual grounds of the Malfoy estate. Harry largely ignored his mindless complaints, merely nodding as though listening to the inane chatter of a two year old. At Draco’s suggestion that they loop back around the manor grounds instead of passing through the gate, however, Harry had become oddly insistent.

“No, you haven’t seen the city. And since you were so keen to ‘get out’, I’m going to show it you.”

Draco had sighed in exasperation. The thought of milling amongst magic-less folk was tiring in itself, not to mention the crowds that naturally encompassed any inner-city streets. Draco was not overly fond of crowds, not even when they were composed solely of wizards and witches. Not that he had a problem with Muggle crowds more, exactly, but… There were boundaries. It was something Draco believed he had adopted from his father; he was more than happy to be the centre of the attention of an enraptured audience, but to be in the thick of things was something different entirely. Lucius always ensured that any pre-term visits to Diagon Alley were conducted well before the rushing influx of last-minute shoppers.

And that was just in the Wizarding world. The density of magical folk held nothing on Muggles; this Draco knew without ever having to experience it. The ratio of their two populace’s just varied so hugely. So it was with a significant amount of regret at his own suggestion that he followed Harry through the iron-wrought gates of the estate and into the Parisian streets.

It was crowded. More than Draco had ever seen it in Diagon Alley. The only benefit of such a crowd was the added warmth of proximity, but even that was deterred by a faint reek and the discomfort of bodies huddled far too closely. Harry, apparently sensing Draco’s unease, or perhaps simply restraining him from a flight back to the manor, had slipped his gloved hand in Draco’s own and led him onward. How he managed it, Draco didn’t quite understand, but that simple gesture allayed any more thoughts of high-tailing it back into the safety of the Wizarding world.

It had been an unremarkable first hour. Weaving between densely packed streets, Draco was more focused upon his increasing warmth and reprimanding himself for the initially considered necessity of wearing so many layers. Though the roads were slick with ice and snow lined the guttering, splashing in a mucky sludge with every passing car, bus and taxi, it was still uncomfortably warm in the shrouds of his thick coat. At that point, his grumbling had probably gotten the best of Harry, for his friend finally sighed and led with more purpose than the apparently aimless wandering . Within moments, he had chivvied Draco onto a bus, of all things, and nudged him into a seat, pausing only to pay the driver with a clink of the change Draco’s parents had offered them for any possible ‘evening strolls’.

It was startling to experience Harry taking the initiative for the second time that morning, so much so that Draco promptly forgot to question exactly where it was that they were going. At least immediately. He had faith in Harry’s sense of direction, anyway, despite the other boy telling him repeatedly that he wasn’t from the inner-city and had only rarely visited. Instead, Draco had turned his attention to more practical matters.

“Why, exactly, are we taking a Muggle bus of all things?”

Harry offered his small smiled from where he leant his head on the back of the seat. “How else would you get halfway across the city?” At Draco’s admittedly nonsensical reply, Harry shrugged. “Besides, I thought you’d appreciate getting off the street. Less crowded, you know?”

Draco did know. And though it was still fairly packed on the bus, it was nothing to the sidewalk. “Fair enough.” He glanced out of the window, basking in the winter sun that filtered through and the feeble attempt at warmth it strove to shed. “So where are we actually going?”

“You said I should show you the city. So we’ll go the tourist route; see the sights and all.” Harry closed his eyes as he leant back against the seat again, apparently perfectly comfortable with the rather jolting experience of the bus-ride. Regardless of Wizarding or Muggle expertise, it was apparently impossible to design a bus that didn’t nearly toss one to the ground with every pebble on the road.

“Yes, but where?”

“Have you ever heard of the Lourve?’

“Lourve?”

“Mmm.” Harry half-opened one eye. “It’s an art gallery.”

“A Muggle art gallery.”

Harry snorted again, the second time that morning. It was no less surprising hearing it repeated. “I would have thought that much was obvious.”

“Hey, don’t take that tone with me!” Draco couldn’t quite keep his amusement from colouring the indignation he attempted.

Harry sighed. “I’m not taking a tone, Draco.” He glanced towards Draco with an exasperated expression, leaving him shifting uncomfortably in his seat. Mostly because he knew Harry was right. Harry never took a ‘tone’ per se, not even when he spoke sarcastically or in jest. It just wasn’t part of his character. “I just want to show you something a little different to what you’d usually see.”

In that moment, Draco had reached an understanding. Harry truly did simply want to show him, but his underlying motivations, conscious or not, were not driven by something so simple. In the weeks past, and in hindsight the months he had known his little friend, Draco had come to a rather startling realisation. Harry was opinionated. And more than that, he wanted other people to hear and at least appreciate his opinions. Despite his natural quietness, most likely a product of the lifestyle he had been subjected to so far, he couldn’t seem to suppress the desire to state his claim, to simply show others how he saw things. Even his quietness had taken a back seat in recent weeks in favour of simply contributing his opinion. A significant development, in Draco’s opinion

Not for the first time, Draco wondered how Harry had survived under his family’s ruthless and controlling domination. Such an opinionated individual, so firm in his belief system, would naturally struggle under such circumstances. How he even retained such opinions in an environment so restricting of such was even more baffling.

Harry seemed to genuinely believe what he said. When he stated something – such as magic – was impossible, at least as he saw it, it was because he truly believed it to be impossible. At least within the boundaries his personal world was constrained by. It was probably why he was unable to convert a ball of yarn back into a kitten, even though Draco knew he was more than capable of the reverse, magically speaking. But most importantly, Harry seemed to want to share his understanding with others, and to test such understanding against the arguments presented to him. Draco had seen it, though just once, when Harry’s opinion and beliefs had been swayed enough for him to practice magic he had previously been unable to comprehend. Hermione had been particularly influential in that instance. From that point onwards, Harry had accepted the possibility as fact, and seamlessly performed alloy transmutation thenceforth. It was one of the traits Draco found most fascinating about his friend; though he so adamantly pursued his own beliefs – albeit in a passive approach – he was open to having such beliefs disproved if done so adequately.

It was exactly what Draco had witnessed at school, and he believed was at least a partial contributor to Harry’s success in wandless, wordless magic. And likely the large driver of his inability to conduct particular types of magic, too.

“What is it?”

Draco cocked his head, raising an eyebrow. Harry sighed in response. “You were looking at me strangely.”

Sighing himself, though much more dramatically, Draco raised a hand to his forehead and adopted a troubled expression. “Merely wondering how you could think that such would interest me. There is no magic; what else is there to know?”

Harry had slipped on a small smile at that, startling in that it seemed almost excited. Another sight Draco had never witnessed before. “We’ll have to wait and see.”

And see they did. Draco would not deny that he was at first sceptical. He wasn’t sure at which point exactly such scepticism transformed first to confusion and mild interest and finally into fascination. It could have been at the Lourve; the architecture of the building itself rivalled that of the most high-class Wizarding families, and that was to say nothing of the giant glass pyramid out the front, nor the wide rooms with tall roofs and that boasted frame after frame of exquisite artwork.

It could have been the Mussee d’Orsay; the sprawling, riverside building was at least on par with the Lourve for architectural finesse, and contained enough historical artefacts and descriptions of detailed static photographs that for the first time Draco regretted his inability to read French. A regret that only manifested on their visit to Notre Dame when he had to request Harry read the pamphlet provided by an overly cheerful and very non-Parisian informant to listen to the history of the building while gazing upon the cathedral with wide eyes.

Or it could have been the peaceful stroll through the snow-bedecked Tuileries Garden; even in winter, trees skeletal in their bareness, the grounds and fountains frozen in the midst of the cold season holding a subtle beauty that captured his attention in an entirely different way to the architectural feats of the buildings visited prior.

It could even have been the lunch of sharp cheese, thick ham and crunchy baguette that the boys nibbled in their wander along La Seine, breathing in the crisp air and trailing eyes over the haphazard placement of buildings along the riverside. One bus-ride too many had left them deciding to take the pedestrian route around the city, something that Draco was not averse too. Especially as it gave them greater opportunity to talk in relative quiet.

“I just find it unbelievable that they could have built an entire cathedral without magic. Over eight hundred years ago, at that.” Dusting his gloves free of breadcrumbs, Draco thrust his fingers in the pockets of his coat and stared pointedly at Harry. He wasn’t angry, or even terribly affronted. He was simply hypothesising that magic must have been in the works at some point in the building’s construction. It would not have been possible for the Muggles to do so, otherwise.

Harry shrugged, chewing on a corner of his own baguette. “No wizards or witches. Purely constructive competency.”

“But how is that even possible. How do they build that without magic.”

Another shrug. “With cranes and manual labour.” Harry glanced up at Draco through his loosening fringe, eyes sparkling in amusement. “Is it that hard to believe?”

Draco sighed, running a hand over his hat in consideration. “Yes… no, I guess not. I just never thought Muggles could be…’’

“They’re not incapable, you know.”

‘Yeah, I’d gathered as much after you’re little show today.’

Harry breathed a sigh of his usual almost-laughter, muttering ‘little show’ beneath his breath. Handing the half-eaten baguette out to Draco, he raised an eyebrow. Draco accepted without comment; it wasn’t an unusual motion, to share food, and Draco was too caught in the conversation to really consider reprimanding Harry for not finishing lunch. Besides, he was hungry.

“Have you ever heard of the pyramids of Egypt?”

Draco paused with a mouthful of bread. “Hmm?”

“The pyramids. In Egypt. They were build long before anything quite of the same scale in Europe.” Harry fixed him with a stare, oddly intense behind the flat reflectiveness of his glasses. “What about the Parthenon, in Rome? The Taj Mahal? The Great Wall of China?” He paused at Draco’s lack of response. “You’ve heard of them, haven’t you?”

Draco resolutely ignored Harry’s attempt to catch his eye and focused instead on the rapidly and regretfully disappearing baguette. “I’ve… heard of them.”

“Ever looked at any pictures?”

“No. Why would I?”

“Because they’re incredible. And they’re entirely Muggle-made.”

“Are you completely sure of that? I’m not convinced that at least Notre Dame wasn’t made with some input by wizards and witches.”

Harry shook his head, a faint smile on his chin. “No, entirely Muggle. I read a book.”

“Of course you did.”

“No, really. Hermione gave it to me. She said she was interested in third year at the degree of cooperation between the magical and non-magical worlds. There was a whole list of constructions, mostly World Heritage sites and structures, which are entirely Muggle made. Very few structures that don’t solely reside in the Wizarding world to the exclusion of Muggles actually have much input of Wizarding architects at all, actually.”

“I think that’s about the longest I’ve ever heard you speak in one go.”

“Don’t try to change the subject.”

Draco chuckled, crumpling the paper bag now empty of bread and folding it into his pocket. “Alright, say I believe you. What then?”

“Does it change your perspective at all?”

“Oh, so that’s what you were trying to do? I knew there was an ulterior motive.” Harry only frowned at him in affront. Draco smiled broadly in response. “I don’t know if it changes anything exactly. As I said, I don’t hate Muggles. I just doubted their competency.”

“And now?”

“I doubt it slightly less.” He laughed louder at Harry’s huff, of frustration this time, looping an arm through his friend’s and grinning down at him. Harry soon returned the smile, though somewhat less broadly. It would never be a Harry expression, anyway, such teeth-flashing grins. “But I’ll admit, I am somewhat impressed.”

Harry’s smile widened slightly at that. “I’m happy to hear it.” The sincerity in his tone made the admission worthwhile, even if it had been true in the first place.

Pulling his friend closer to his side, Draco jostled him with an elbow. “So, Mr. Tour Guide. Where to now?”

Harry raised his free hand, gloved finger tapping his chin in consideration. “Well, it is only a little after lunch. We could go anywhere…”

“Anywhere in particular?”

‘We still have to see the Eiffel Tower.’

“The what?”

“Please tell me you’ve heard of it before.”

He had. Maybe. Draco wouldn’t tell Harry that, though. He was far more amused with the exasperation that glowed in his friend’s eyes as he shook his head.

* * *

“Why would anyone possibly climb it?”

Harry shrugged, barely heeding Draco’s incredulous stare as he tilted his head to observe the heights of the structure himself. Draco followed his gaze and suppressed a swallow. He knew he was more than capable of flying to such heights on a broomstick, but something about relying solely upon a wavering Muggle-built structure seemed so much more daunting.

“Do you want to climb it?”

Suppressing a flinch, Draco shook his head with forced control. “No, no, I… I’m fine, thank you.” He thought he made a fair attempt at a blasé attitude but Harry only smiled a hidden smile that said he saw straight through him.

“Would you like to go somewhere else then? Or we could have a look around. The Champ de Mars is still pretty impressive, even from ground-level.” He gestured to the broad expanse of snow-covered parkland beyond the tower.

Draco shrugged. “Yeah, we could. Or we could go wherever it was that you’ve been considering going all day.”

It was Harry’s turn to start in surprise. The dark-haired boy blinked rapidly, sweeping a hand through his fringe to frown questioningly at Draco. “Hmm?”

“Every time we’ve walked anywhere near a train station, you sort of pause like you’re considering hopping onto the platform.” Shrugging again, Draco thrust his hands into his pockets. He tried not to look self-satisfied, but it was difficult. “Where was it that you wanted to go?”

Harry’s mouth had fallen open, hanging slightly. Draco knew he should have felt affronted – did Harry really see him as so unperceptive? – but his self-satisfaction outweighed any disgruntlement. Finally, Harry clicked his jaw shut. “No, it’s okay.”

“Where did you want to go?”

“Draco, I said it’s okay –“

“And I’m saying that if you’d like to go somewhere then we’ll go.” Glancing up at the sky, eyes squinting at the sun’s glare, Draco frowned. “I’d say we have at least another five hours or so until nightfall. How about it?”

Harry seemed to be nearly chewing a tear in his lower lip. One hand rose to his chest – no, to his collarbone – but the thickness of gloves, scarf and jacket made any attempts at the compulsive action moot. Sighing, chin dropping, he flickered his eyes to Draco.

“Look, you don’t have to –“

“Harry.”

Another sigh. When he finally spoke again, it was so quiet, even more than usual, that Draco had to lean forward to hear him. “I just thought I should… drop by my uncles house.”

Blankness whited out Draco’s mind, but only briefly. The mixture of anger and horror that rushed forth to colour the clean numbness was nearly warm in its intensity. As a result, when he spoke it was with more heat than he anticipated. “Why would you want to go back to him?”

Harry hunched his shoulders, chin tucking to his chest and closed his eyes. It was that very motion reigned in Draco’s anger; that Harry might feel intimidated by him, nervous even, was possibly the most horrifying thing he could think of. At the moment anyway.

Before he could speak, however, Harry continued in a hushed tone. “I didn’t say I wanted to go back to him. I don’t even want to see him. Ever.” He drew in a breath and released it in a small cloud of white. “But I have… things that I need to pick up. Everything I left behind.” He opened his eyes, sending Draco a gaze faintly imploring. “I didn’t have much time to grab anything before I left before.”

Instantly, Draco felt an upwelling of guilt flood through him. It was an unfamiliar feeling; he was unaccustomed to feeling abashed or ashamed of anything, much less when the one causing him to feel as much did not enforce the sentiment. He could not deny, however, as Harry tucked his chin once more as though awaiting reprimand, that the guilt was sincere. Swallowing the bitter taste, he reached out a hand and gently wrapped his fingers around the gloved fingers that plucked persistently at Harry’s scarf. He almost forgot, especially when his small friend acted so confident and animated, that Harry was prone to such nervousness. And who wouldn’t be, after struggling through the childhood that he had?

“Oh, I see.” Smiling with forced brightness, Draco nodded as though reaching a decision. “Well, in that case, we’ll go.”

Harry raised his chin, blinking incredulously. A frown gradually settled on his forehead. “You… what?”

“Let’s go.”

“You’re actually agreeing to come with me?”

“Well, it’s not like I’d let you go alone.” The wobbly smile that spread across Harry’s face eradicated of any further hesitancy. Even the prospect of confronting the bastard himself.

They made short work of the subways. Not for the first time, Draco was glad of Harry’s accompaniment, not only as a guide but as a translator. He could hazard a guess at some of the signage, but most was lost on him, and the densely packed state of the sidewalks still left him feeling a little frazzled. Following in Harry’s wake, his friend slightly subdued with the prospect of their destination, he waited in silence as Harry quietly requested tickets at the service counter and urged Draco through the turnstiles of the station. Really, so much fuss and bother for such a small expedition. And the tickets? Were Muggles all so untrustworthy?

They eventually settled themselves in a relatively packed carriage – though, to Draco’s relief, secured a pair of seats beside a solo middle-aged traveller – and eased themselves into the gentle swaying of the carriage. Draco had to admit that, though he was not entirely comfortable with the prospect of moving underground, the rhythmic swaying was rather calming. And besides, it was nice to get off his feet; they’d walked a respectable distance that day already.

“So how far out is the place you’re from?”

Harry turned at the question, blinking rapidly as though he hadn’t expected the interruption. It wouldn’t be surprising to find as much; he’d barely spoken a word in English since they had left the shadow of the Eiffel Tower.

“Sorry?”

“The place you live. Where about is it?”

‘Oh.’ He paused, as though he honestly had to think about it. ‘A little over an hour and a half, south-east from Paris Metro.” He tapped a finger thoughtfully to his chin. “I think it’s… it should take about hour to reach the station, maybe a little longer at this time of day. Then a bus, and it’s a bit of a walk, but not too far.” He turned a nervous glance towards Draco. “Is that alright?”

Draco sighed in exaggerated despair. “Ask me if it’s alright one more time and I swear, I’ll charm your lips shut first thing when terms starts again.” He smiled to make sure Harry knew he was joking and received a muted reply. “Calm down, would you? If I objected to accompanying you, I would have said something. Surely my approach to this morning’s endeavour was evidence enough of that?”

Harry’s smile widened slightly and he seemed to relax with the statement. For Draco’s part, however, the companionable silence that followed left him to mulling in a decidedly uncomfortable way.

He didn’t think it was necessarily a _bad_ idea to visit Harry’s home. Rather, the very fact that Harry had requested their visit made it a very _good_ idea; Harry never asked for anything. Still, Draco couldn’t fully overlook the complete lack of consideration for circumstance, given the hastiness of their decision. He knew he was prone to rash decision-making, but that was usually just when it concerned himself. When it also included Harry…

In all honesty, Draco would have far preferred to be accompanied by his parents. Particularly his mother, but either would have been preferable to neither. It was not so much for the sake of ‘back-up’, but Draco wasn’t entirely sure what they would find at the house. He wasn’t scared; no, far from it. More… concerned for the welfare of Harry’s uncle, and the repercussions of what would be an almost certainly volatile confrontation. He held no qualms about conducting magic out of school when he really needed to, and particularly not in this instance. He brought his wand with him everywhere as proof of his stance on the matter.

The question was, how much would the Ministry of Magic be able to overlook, even in a foreign country? Draco was fairly certain that flaying and subsequent inversion of musculature – a rather artful picture in his mind – would be unacceptable. If his father had accompanied him – or better yet his mother, given he knew her own stance on the situation more thoroughly – such considerations would have been fruitless. Narcissa would most likely have beaten him to it.

Perhaps it was the dark cast to his thoughts, or merely the passing mental image of his parents, but for whatever reason Draco felt himself cringe with the reminder of his parent’s absence. The possibilities, the unknown… It sent a hollow ache through his chest just to consider.

In an attempt to divert his own attention, Draco cast a glance at Harry and studied his friend. Head bowed slightly, drifting easily with the rhythm of the swaying carriage, he looked as at home on the Muggle train as any of the other informally dressed individuals that surrounded them. Even the new glasses, beautiful in their glass-like fragility, didn’t stand out in the artificial light of the carriage. Draco found the fluorescence to be rather discomforting; it was almost painful to behold, far from the soft flicker of familiar candlelight. How backwards Muggles were.

Turning his glare back from the stuttering light overhead, a glimmer of blue caught his eye. “You’re still wearing the apatites.”

Harry raised his chin, blinking in that oddly distracted way he seemed prone to doing that afternoon, and raised an eyebrow. “Hmm?”

“The earrings.”

Gloved fingers rose to touch lightly on the polished stone characters, just visible beneath the rim of Harry’s hat. A faintly fond smile curled on his lips. “Oh, yeah. I don’t think I’ll ever take them off again.”

“They’re working well, then?”

The smile widened slightly. “You could say that.”

“Well, how would you say it, then?”

_“C’est magique.”_

Draco grinned, an extended mimic of his friend’s. Comfortable self-satisfaction settled on his shoulders. “Then, you’re welcome.” He ignored the small roll of Harry’s eyes. “How does it work?”

Harry’s eyebrow rose in question once more. “What do you mean? Weren’t you the one who bought it?”

“Yes, but I’ve never actually experienced it myself. And the description I got was riddled with more verbosity than spots on a Sparking Munchkin quail.”

“Sparking Munchkin quail?”

“They’re from Mexico.”

“Of course. No wonder I’ve never heard of them.” Draco didn’t miss the sarcasm.

“Well?”

Tapping his chin once more, Harry cocked his head in consideration. “I don’t know if it would be the same with anyone other than Lyssy, since I know her so well, but it just seemed to click so well.” His small smile took on a distant quality. “It’s not exactly _words_ that I hear, or words that I give her. More like feelings, or impressions. Like painting a picture with a mixture of colours, and each has its own meaning.”

“You paint a picture with your words.”

“Yeah, that’s sort of what it’s like.”

“No, I meant that what you just said…’ Draco stopped and brushed the miscommunication aside. “So you actually talk to Lyssy? Anything particularly interesting?”

Harry’s slight smile became amused. He probably heard the cynicism in Draco’s tone but didn’t comment on it. “You’d be surprised actually. But really, she’s surprisingly predictable with her comments.” He cast a sidelong glance at the young Malfoy. “Especially in reference to you.”

“To me?” Draco sniffed. “Predictable, naturally. How could she have anything to say but glowing compliments?”

Harry’s lips quivered. “How indeed.”

The conversation kept up a broken flow, light-hearted words interspersed with periods of comfortable silence. It wasn’t particularly loud on the train, and in other circumstances Draco may have been faintly concerned at some of the topics of discussion given the density of Muggles, but Harry had shrugged off the suggestion.

“No one near enough speaks anything approaching fluent English. You don’t need to worry about it.”

“You know that for a fact?”

“Pretty much. I spent my first few months in Paris without knowing a word of French; you pick up quickly who can actually understand what you’re saying and who’s just being polite. Or nosy.” A quick cast around the carriage and he shrugged again. “I think the man with the black beanie knows a bit – he looked up when you were talking about the Mismatch Potion – but no one else, I think.”

Draco had followed Harry’s sweep of the fellow travellers with a frown impressing his brow. “I wonder if there are any other wizards or witches on board.”

“Unlikely.”

“Oh? And why is that?”

“If they’re anywhere near as tense as you are on a Muggle train, I think they would avoid it if at all possible.” After that, Draco had made a conscious effort to appear at ease.

They had to change trains only once. It was an experience that Draco was dreading repeating on the return journey. The Muggles scurried like ants across his path and he found himself scowling more than once as he had to dance to avoid tripping over an oblivious by-passer. Harry was amused enough to be drawn from his contemplation and latched his fingers onto Draco’s arm, acting as both a physical and supportive guide. Navigation was significantly easier after that, but Draco still detested the crowds with a growing intensity.

At their final stop, the sheer number of people travelling was markedly reduced. The carriage almost seemed sparse and far less manic, though maybe that was just in comparison to its earlier resemblance to a troupe of house elves at a banquet. To his despair, Harry insisted that they take a bus, but even that was more tolerable than those in the city. The swaying of the vehicle was less nauseating without the reek of closely packed bodies and muted buzz of unintelligible verbalisations. Besides, the final stretch was comparatively short.

Draco rubbed his arms to ward off the chill of the early afternoon as he waited for Harry to join him on the sidewalk after alighting from the bus. For whatever reason, the air felt colder than it had in the city streets. He didn’t like the look of the grey clouds that tiptoed overhead; they seemed to promise an icy evening. As soon as his friend clambered off the final step, the bus groaned like a weary beast-of-burden, clamped its doors shut and heaved into motion. The clattering and thrumming of a heavy engine dwindled rapidly as it disappeared around the distant corner.

Turning his attention towards Harry, Draco tilted his head questioningly. He didn’t speak; the ambiance of their surroundings seemed to deter such. Harry nodded in silent recognition of his question and tilted his head directionally to the left before leading the way.

It was a quiet street that they descended, or maybe that was just a result of the weather. No cars trundled over slick roads, though several lined the sidewalk, and Draco spied only one other walker, head down and seemingly intent on his destination. It was a welcome relief from the constant presence of pedestrians and sightseers in the city, and Draco was left instead with the opportunity to appreciate his surroundings.

The houses were not cluttered, though were closely situated enough to suggest the populace was fairly dense. There was a predominance of white walls, of red roofs and small gardens, but the effect was not particularly aversive. Simply ordinary, and not worthy of comment. There was not even anything decidedly Muggle about the area. Despite the lack of magical references, the houses could have been those of any middle-class Wizarding family. The thought was oddly discomforting, but not quite as much as Draco would have found it the day before.

Heading up a slight incline, Harry seemed to slow in his footsteps and Draco knew they were approaching Defaux’s house. Following the line of his friend’s gaze, his own fixed upon a similarly unremarkable building; it was perhaps on the smaller end of the residences they had passed, but otherwise held no discernible features. Single-storey, red-roof, a stunted driveway seating a sleek, black automobile that squatted idly like a watching hawk. The curtains of the front window were shuttered, blocking any potential escaping light. It looked, for all intents and purposes, as though no one was home.

“He’s not home.”

Turning as the whisper of his friend, Draco raised an eyebrow at the verbalisation of his thoughts. “Is he at work perhaps?”

Harry shook his head slowly, eyes still fixed as though in a daze. Seemingly without realising, his fingers rose and pressed against the collar of his jacket. “Not at this time of year, no.”

“How do you know, then?”

Harry shrugged. “He doesn’t feel like he’s home. That extra sense, you know. The magical feeling.”

Both of Draco’s eyebrows rose this time. “You just used magic.”

“I don’t know if that really counts as using magic, but…”

“You just used a Detection Charm, and you didn’t even realise?” His incredulity drew a strangled laugh from his throat. _And all this holidays, I’ve regretted that I couldn’t do magic. Merlin, I even regretted it coming over here. And he just does a spell like that out of the blue._ “Well, if we get caught for underage magic then I’m blaming you.”

“Don’t worry, I don’t think we’ll get caught or anything.” Leaving the cryptic words in his wake, Harry drew a shaky breath and stepped from the sidewalk onto the pavement leading to the house. His boots made faint scuffing noises with every step.

Striding after him, Draco fell into place beside him as they ascended the steps to the front veranda and stopped at the door. “You’re entirely sure of that?”

Harry nodded distractedly. “It never has before.” His fingers twitched for a moment before he grasped the door handle and turned. It was locked and only clicked in stubborn dispute.

“And when you say before… You have been doing magic before you came to Hogwarts, haven’t you?” A piece of the puzzle of his friend fell comfortably into place, a piece that he hadn’t even noticed was missing. Everyone had exclaimed incredulously over Harry’s first display of magic being in his fifteenth year; Draco should have known better.

Leaning forward, he pressed gloved hands uselessly against the wood of the front door. “It’s locked. Have you got a key or…?”

He would have eaten his words if he could, but they hung in the word like an expression of his own stupidity. Harry had already said that he left the house with next to nothing, only the clothes on his back and little enough of that. He hadn’t even taken shoes; Draco remembered with a mixture of horror and anger the sickly colour of his friends toes when he had stumbled upon him.

Harry didn’t seem to even hear him, however. Instead, he placed his own hand next to Draco’s and pressed his own hand to the wood. As if in answer to Draco’s previous question, the door swung inwards with a click and an almost audible sigh.

Draco fought to contain the little thrill he got every time he watched wandless magic. Even more, the thrill of watching _Harry’s_ wandless magic. “I suppose you’re special brand of magic isn’t detectable by the Ministry?”

He gave his friend a sardonic smile, attempting to lighten the nervous mood, but Harry didn’t even glance at him. He only shrugged. “I’ve never been told off for it before, if that’s what you mean.”

“How is that even possible?”

Another shrug. “Your guess is as good as mine. Though it’s not like I really wanted anyone to see me do anything ‘magical’. If someone saw, they’d freak out…” He trailed off, swallowing in an almost gagging gulp that bespoke the alternative nature of his focus. Draco quietened any further questions; he didn’t think Harry was really in the right frame of mind to answer them anyway.

The shorter boy edged slowly into the house. Even though he had affirmed the absence of occupants, Draco thought he half expected to be bombarded with his first step over the threshold. Draco, thankful for the offer of a relief from the crisp iciness, followed on his tail.

It was remarkably sparse indoors. Not intentionally, perhaps, but there was a complete lack of personalisation that bespoke disregard for artistry or detail, or sentimentality for the past. The contrast to the colourful paintings, the woven tapestries and strategically placed artefacts around Draco’s own home made the bareness stark. He suppressed a shiver that had nothing to do with the abrupt relief from the outdoor crispness that the two boys stepped into.

Harry led the way down an unlit hallway, hands trailing without touching on the cream walls before flicking a button of sorts and illuminating the passage with the vibrant lights Muggles were so fond of. It didn’t do much for the approachability of the room.

Peering at the wall-button, Draco almost missed as Harry disappeared into the first room in the hallway. Following in his footsteps, he nearly ploughed into his friends, frozen just inside the doorway. The tension positively radiated from him.

Neither spoke. Striving for silence, Draco edged to his friends side, taking in the room as he did so. The same plainness engulfed the dim room uncomfortably; a single bed, desk, half-opened cupboard and window covered by gossamer curtains, entirely impractical for the winter weather. The room did not look unlived in; the bed sheets were bundled halfway down the mattress as though a sleeper had just arisen from the comfortable folds, and a pair of boots lay discarded several feet from the cupboard. They looked like Harry’s boots – too small for anyone with any sort of height.

Glancing towards Harry’s frozen form, speculations began to rise unbidden in Draco’s mind. The absolute stillness of his friend, the paleness and deceptive blankness so reminiscent of the constant expression he’d worn in the past, spoke of trauma as if the memories were painted across the walls. Draco fought to press down upon the simmering rage that threatened to rear its head. He didn’t want to think of what could have happened, what that bastard could have done to his Harry. The beast wasn’t even here to pay for his sins, so the anger would go unloosed, or misdirected. It wouldn’t help any, and Harry was unlikely to respond supportively in his current state.

Instead, he took a deep breath and took a silent step closer to his friend’s side. Slowly, with as little presumption as he could muster, he nudged his shoulder into Harry’s own. It was gratifying that Harry didn’t flinch away.

Drawing in an almost panting breath, Harry closed his eyes. Fingers rose to press against his eyelids, sliding behind the thin glass of his spectacles with practiced motions. His forehead creased as though he scowled at an unseen foe. Draco released his own sigh of relief; the emotion, any emotion, was so much better than that blankness Harry had once been so fond of.

“I…” Harry drew another breath, his voice so quiet it was barely audible, even in the silence of the house. He dropped his fingers from his eyes and spared an embarrassed glance for Draco. “Sorry.”

“For what?”

“Completely zoning out.”

Draco snorted. “Whatever.” He forced nonchalance into his tone, but didn’t think Harry was fooled. “I don’t really mind. It’s not like we’re in a hurry. But,” he paused and cast a glance around the room. “Maybe it would be a good idea to grab anything you wanted to get, before anyone notices we’re here.” He had to bite his tongue to refrain from cursing the owner of the house.

“Hmm.” Harry agreed instantly with a nod that looked almost relieved. “That’s probably a good idea. Be gone before… someone comes back.” He mimicked Draco’s glance around the room then, with forced enthusiasm, propped open the cupboard doors and began filtering through the contents. Draco didn’t comment upon the suggestion that they ‘be gone’ before anyone interrupted them. He personally would have been more than happy to confront the twisted man who claimed the false title of ‘uncle’.

It didn’t take Harry long to make a small pile on the desk. Mostly clothes and a few books; at least Defaux had managed to adequately clothe his charge. The issue came about when he had finished piling.

“A suitcase…”

“Don’t you have your school trunk?”

Harry shook his head. “My uncle…” He paused, closed his eyes briefly before collecting himself and starting again. “My uncle took it into his room. He didn’t want me ‘accessing’ anything, he said.”

Draco bit back a growl. Never, not even in the breaks between term when he couldn’t even use magic, did his own parents separate him from his wand, and they actively demanded he spend some quality time with his school books. As well ask him to go for the entire time without a foot. Or unable to speak. The latter in particular made him cringe even to contemplate.

“Alright, I’ll go and get it. Which room?” He resolutely denied the opportunity to call the man’s room his. It was childish, but felt satisfying nonetheless.

“I’ll get it myself. It’s alright.” And it seemed to be. Perhaps it was Draco’s offer, or simply that he had become slightly acclimatised to the situation, but Harry seemed a little more at ease. Offering a faint attempt at a smile, he passed Draco into the hallway.

Defaux’s room was the furthest into the house, an odd placement so removed from the first bedroom. Draco followed Harry through a gloomily lit lounge area, past a simple dining table and kitchen filled with a compilation of objects Draco didn’t even want to contemplate, and through the open doorway of the second bedroom. It was bigger than the first room, nearly twice the size, with a cupboard nearly three times the width of the other. The same ‘lived in’ feel permeated the air, though in a much less orderly fashion than the first room – Harry’s room, Draco registered belatedly. Sheets were rumpled amidst a pile of thicker blankets upon the bed and clothes slumped discarded across every inch of carpet. One door of the cupboard was open and clothing trailed from the shelves like vines looped over a balcony. Oddly, the window was drawn open, the chilling winds blowing the curtains lazily and filling the room with a crisp and uncomfortable edge that thankfully dissipated before permeating the house proper.

Harry’s fingers tugged against the collar of his coat, but Draco was satisfied to see he didn’t waste a moment with heading towards the cupboard and tugging at the closed door. The catch jammed for a moment before swinging open, a small wave of clothing nearly drowning the dark-haired boy before he quickly jumped backwards.

“Up the top.” Draco nodded to the sizeable trunk wedged on the top shelf, stepping forward to offer a hand. Harry would have had to stretch on his toes to reach it anyway, and likely would have been crushed in a second wave had he attempted to tug it down himself. Draco himself grunted under the effort. Handing the handle towards his friend, Draco cast a quick glance around the room. It was in a truly unappealing state, if he was to be honest, only lowering his opinion of the owner further if such was possible. He hardly deserved even the bed he slept on.

The thought drove another. “Is there anything else you want?”

Harry glanced up at him through his fringe from the contents of the trunk he was checking, kneeling at its side on the floor. “Hmm?”

“I’d say you have about as much right to anything in this house as you uncle.” He couldn’t suppress the hiss in his voice at the term, and regretted it only as Harry flinched. Easing his tone, he forced a smile. “Anything that you might need?”

Harry shook his head slowly, a confused expression wrinkling his brow. “I don’t think so…”

But Draco was abruptly taken with the idea. Why shouldn’t Harry take anything he wanted? The _bastard_ had taken more than could be repaid from his friend, more by miles. Anything Harry wanted should be _his,_ but right. Turning towards the contents of the cupboard, ignoring the remaining piles of clothing, he ran his eyes over the shelves.

:Books, you could always use books if you wanted. If there’s anything interesting. Jewellery, though it’s rather tasteless. I wouldn’t recommend it. Any of this paperwork? I don’t really know what Peugeot is, but…”

“It’s my uncle’s company. The one he works for. Designs cars and such…”

“Oh. Well, that might be useful if you wanted to wring him dry.” Draco flickered idly through the papers before disgarding them and turning back to the contents of the cupboard. There was no order to them anyway. “Papers, more papers – does he not know how to file? – papers. Some sort of Muggle applicance of sorts –“

“That’s an electric shaver.”

“-more papers. Merlin, how many belts does one person need? And watches. Is that a helmet?” Draco paused, frowned at the misshapen object but quickly shook his head, disregarding it. His eyes fell on a box pressed to the back of the cupboard. “This looks promising.” Sliding his fingers beneath the stout feet, he drew the box from the shelf. It was surprisingly heavy.

Harry didn’t comment, and though Draco got the distinct impression he didn’t quite approve he still peered at the box curiously. He watched Draco with a faintly worried frown on his face, arms half-buried in the body of his trunk. He didn’t object, however, when Draco dropped to the floor beside him, flicked the latches of the lid and swung it open.

Neither of them spoke at first. A foreboding stillness gripped them both. “What is that?”

It was an object that Draco was sure he’d seen before, but couldn’t quite place. Small, a little bigger than his own hand, and L-shaped with a finger-sized ring in the elbow of the two arms, it lay cradled in a fitted casing of something that looked like black foam. A small impression of letters and numbers, of which he could make out _9mm, Beretta_ and _U.S.A_ , was barely visible along the longer arm of the object. A smaller metallic rectangle, the same matte black colour as the item itself, lay in its own impression in the foam. Draco wasn’t sure what either of them were, but as his fingers touched on the cold smoothness, the chill that lingered on his skin seemed to be from more than the coldness of metal.

“D-don’t touch it!”

Fingers instinctively flinching away at the whispered shout, Draco glanced quickly towards Harry. The other boy stared with wide eyes at the object in the box, arms reaching towards Draco as though frozen in the act of wrenching him away from it. The fear that seemed to ripple off of him was infectious and made the hairs on the back of Draco’s neck stand on end.

“What…?”

“It’s a g-gun.”

The word held no significance to Draco, except perhaps to increase his foreboding. That was likely due more to Harry’s tone than any triggering of memory. “Gun? What is it?”

Harry drew in a shaking breath. He seemed absolutely terrified, though in a more acute sense than the chronic fear he had emanated upon entering the house. Reaching forwards, hesitantly, as though he didn’t wish to touch it, he flipped the lid of the box down again. Another shaking breath and the tension in his shoulders lessened slightly. “It’s a weapon. It’s used to ki… to hurt people.” The silence that followed was so profound that Draco heard his swallow nervously. “I don’t know why… People shouldn’t have things like that.”

“Do you think he’d use it? To hurt someone?”

Harry paused, then slowly shook his head. “If he was… if he had a gun, I think it would mostly just be because my uncle’s a bit paranoid. Fear of the unknown, you know?”

Draco nodded slowly, frowning. “But… Is it dangerous?”

Harry lifted his eyes at Draco’s question, eyes squinting slightly in bafflement. “It’s used to hurt people. Of course it’s dangerous.”

“It couldn’t be as dangerous that casting some of the more extreme hexes, though, or a curse.” Draco fixed his eyes on the box, eyes tracing over the afterimage of the gun in it’s padded casing. A weapon… Muggles made weapons, he knew that. But how dangerous could it be, really, when compared to the spells of a wizard?

In a motion of unexpected aggression, Harry leant forwards once more and thrust the box towards the cupboard. It slid easily across the carpet. Beneath his breath, Draco could have sworn he heard him mutter something that sounded like ‘yeah, but _wands_ are dangerous…’. He spoke up a moment later, however. “No, maybe not, but that still doesn’t make it right to have one in your possession.” A completely foreign scowl curled his lip. Draco blinked in astonishment at the expression. “It still seems strange that he would have it, even if just for protection…”

Draco couldn’t suppress a snort at that. R _eally? He doesn’t think that bastard would possess something that could hurt someone?_ Harry glanced up at him, the scowl fallen from his face as though it had never been. Draco must have been glaring unintentionally, for his friend shifted uncomfortably under his scrutiny.

Turning his attention back to the closed box, he fingered to top idly. A thought niggled at the back of his mind. “It’s probably because you don’t cast offensive spells – or defensive spells for that matter – that the thought of _anyone_ owning something that could hurt someone else seems outrageous.” He frowned, and before he really considered it he blurted out the passing thought. “Do you want to take it?”

He immediately knew he’d said the wrong thing as Harry’s face contorted into an expression of horror. He had to suppress a wince. “W-what?! Why would I take it? I don’t want a weapon!”

Draco shrugged, abashed but unwilling to apologise for the slip of the tongue. “I just thought, seeing as you couldn’t really handle offensive spells…”

“When would I ever need hurt someone?!” Harry voice was a whispered squeak. He sounded so upset that Draco had to close his eyes briefly to keep from cringing.

“Look, I wasn’t suggesting that. I just thought… you know, in a worst case scenario.” He did cringed as he met Harry’s wide eyes, peering frightfully at him through the strands of his loose fringe. Desperately, he attempted another track. “I mean, a weapon isn’t just for hurting others, right? It’s also used to protect others. Sometimes the best defence is offense, and seeing as you can’t make a shield and won’t attack anyone…” He trailed off, fearing that his flapping tongue would only bury him further into a rather uncomfortable hole. He turned back towards the box and, with more difficulty than he thought it would be, muttered “sorry”.

Harry didn’t reply immediately. They sat in a tension so thick it seemed to immobilise them both, but finally Draco heard his friend release a faint sigh and slump slightly in his crouch. “No, I’m… I’m sorry. I completely overreacted. I was just startled and… a little scared I guess.” He leant forwards, tilting his head to slide into Draco’s field of vision. Though his eyes were still wide, a hint of colour had returned to his cheeks and he even attempted a wavering smile. “Sorry.”

Draco felt a flush of awkwardness flare in his cheeks. He was thoroughly mortified, and not only because of his continued regret over his words. Just that slight apology was enough to send a blossom of unexpected warmth through his chest, and it was a struggle to suppress a beaming smile from breaking out across his face. _That would just be_ too _embarrassing. Why does Harry always make me want to smile at the most inappropriate times?_

Clearing his throat, he shrugged, pushing the box slightly further towards the cupboard. “No harm done. It was just a suggestion.”

“An admittedly valid one, too.” Draco nearly lost his eyeballs as they bulged in disbelief, threatening to pop from his head. He kept his gaze trained fixedly on the pale carpet. “You’re right. I can’t defend myself, and I could hardly cast an offensive charm. And, well, the Wizarding world is obviously a lot more dangerous than the one I’ve been exposed to.’ He sounded more thoughtful than scared, now.

“It was just a suggestion. You don’t have to take me up on it.” Draco murmured the words weakly, more to say something, anything, than to enforce the sentiment.

“I know.” The smile Harry gave him was steadier this time.

Suddenly unable to withstand the nervous agitation any longer, Draco heaved himself to his feet. “Well, if there’s nothing you want to take from the cupboard… Is everything in your trunk?” At Harry’s nod, he flipped the lid closed, tilted it on it’s end and gasped the handle, dragging it across the carpet as he made his way to the door. He didn’t glance over his shoulder to see if Harry followed; he was afraid he would flush furiously if he dared.

Manoeuvring the trunk awkwardly past the kitchen and dining areas, he was soon distracted from his thoughts. More so when he glanced up briefly and noticed a door he hadn’t considered before, down the hallway a little and nearly adjacent to Harry’s room. It was a colour so perfectly matching to the surrounding walls that he wasn’t surprised he’d overlooked it. Still, another room; it could hold something useful, and Draco felt determined to find _something_ for Harry to take from the man’s house that wasn’t his school things.

Dragging the trunk after him, he twisted the handle and eased the door inwards. There was a slight squeak, as though the hinges had been slightly neglected. Squinting into the darkness of the room, he shivered at the stale chill. The coldness bespoke concrete rather than carpet, and a step into the room proved as much to be true by the ring of his boots of hard floor. Glancing down, he noticed a handful of steps disappearing into the gradually clearing darkness.

Dropping the handle of the trunk, he stepped inside. A glance at the wall behind him found one of those light-buttons, and he pressed it with fumbling fingers, nearly flinching with the faint click of artificial light overhead. What the light showed was nothing so remarkable, but unfamiliar nonetheless.

It was barely as big as Harry’s bedroom, yet crammed with misshapen objects that Draco had not the slightest inkling of their function. Some were polished silver, others of that translucent, flexible plastic that Muggles seemed so fond of crafting everything from. There were cardboard boxes holding an assortment of items from books to the electronic things to what he could only assume were tools, and a rather precarious looking shelf at the far end of the room that looked as though it struggled under the weight of crates piled atop it.

It was the item in the middle of the room that drew the eye, however. Draco recognised it only from the few times he had seen them that day; wizards used motorbikes, for sure, but nothing quite to the degree that Muggles did. There was something about the build of bike – so much sleeker, such smoother lines – that wizards didn’t seem quite possible of attaining in their vehicles yet. Not that he would ever admit as much.

Stepping up to the bike, he reached out tentatively and ran a hand over the smooth seat. It felt like leather, but harder than the jackets and gloves he wore, as though treated for firmness. It was plain black, reflecting the unassuming black and white plating of the rest of the bike, a subtly that contrasted to the sparkling gold surface of the inside of each wheel. Draco wouldn’t admit that he found it quite appealing; it was Muggle, after all, and though he could respect it in his head he would never do so aloud.

“Have you ever ridden one?”

Harry’s voice echoed slightly from the concrete walls. Draco raised his eyes from where they ran over the bike and shook his head. Harry stepped down the stairs in his usual quietness, stopping at his side. “Fair enough. I couldn’t really see you riding one. It’s a Fireblade. Such a good ride.”

It took a moment for Harry’s words to sink in, and when they did Draco was so surprised that he didn’t even feel embarrassed when his jaw dropped open. “What? You’ve actually ridden it?”

Harry nodded, staring almost adoringly at the bike. ‘Yeah, a few of times.’

Draco’s teeth clicked as he forced his jaw shut. The image of Harry – _his_ Harry – riding a motorbike of all things did not register within the bounds of the believable in his mind. ‘Wha… you… you’ve actually ridden it?’

Harry turned towards him, amusement tugging at his lips. Draco noted with detachment that the fear that had overwhelmed him but moment before had all but disappeared. “Yes, Draco, several times.” He frowned thoughtfully up at Draco. “I told you about it, remember? When we were flying. I said I’d ridden a bike before and it wasn’t all that different in dangerousness.”

“I thought you meant a bicycle. A _bicycle.”_

“Ah. Well, no. I didn’t.”

“When?” The question was probably a bit too demanding, and Draco attempted to modify his tone. “I mean I wouldn’t have expected _him_ to have let you.” The distastefulness of his own reminder served to modulate Draco’s incredulity.

Harry shook his head, his attention turning once more to the bike. His thin fingers played delicately over the leather seat; their delicacy, that of Harry himself, seemed so in contrast to the stoic solidity of the bike that Draco couldn’t even form the mental image. “My uncle didn’t let me ride it. It was only when he was away for business that I could.”

“What, you snuck it out? You did?”

“Mmhm,” Harry murmured distractedly, as though the thought of any rule-breaking were not an entirely foreign concept to him. He acknowledged the fact, however, a moment later. “I always did what I was told. Always. But for some reason, with the bike…” He shrugged, idly stroking one of the mirrors. “The first time I rode it was one of the few times that I used magic. Intentionally, anyway.”

Draco stared at his friend. Harry never spoke of home, never even mentioned his uncle. That he had requested they visit today was one thing, but now he was opening up? It almost seemed too good to be true. It wasn’t lost on Draco that today he had learned more of Harry’s past, of who he had been before Hogwarts, than in the entire time he’d known him.

“I wouldn’t have thought you were the type. At all.”

Harry huffed a faint laugh, barely audible. “Yes, well… don’t you ever get the urge to just do something completely different for once? Completely uncharacteristic and… and just… _different?”_

Draco blinked. His head began shaking before he even gave it permission to. “I don’t think so.”

Harry smiled fondly, and there was a touch of secrecy to that expression. Like he knew something, or recalled something, that was entirely his.

 _I want to know. I want to know anything he can tell me_. Aloud, he kept his voice free of hungry eagerness. “What happened?”

Fingers still fiddling, Harry pondered for a moment before speaking. “It was when I was fourteen. Not the first time that my uncle left for a business trip overseas, but the first time he left for so long at once. Nearly two weeks.

“I’m used to doing what I’m told. I guess… I never really question…” He paused, took a deep breath and glanced at Draco. Only briefly, though, before dropping his eyes. “It’s a strange feeling, always being told what to do and where to be, exactly when, and then to no longer have someone there to direct you. It’s a little bit overwhelming. Empowering, even. I’ve gotten myself into trouble more than a few times when my uncle came back and I was less… willing to do as he told me to straight away.”

Draco grit his teeth, jaw nearly audible in its squeak with the tension of locking teeth. In that moment, he was sure that he would have killed the man had he presented himself, regardless of a potential life sentence in Azkaban. He didn’t think he’d ever hated anyone so much as Stephen Defaux; maybe more than the Dark Lord, if that was even possible.

He didn’t speak, though. He didn’t want to break into Harry’s words. Harry so rarely spoke of anything of his past; angry though he was, the knowledge left him with a faint warmth in his belly. It felt like he was getting closer to his friend, even if just a little bit. “My uncle has always had an obsession with car and bikes. Not that he drives or rides them all that much. More that he just likes looking at them. Possessing them. He’ll buy a new one, keep it for as long as the sight of it still amuses him, then sell it and buy a different one. He doesn’t even use them for transport; he takes the train to work every day.

“But this bike, his Fireblade. He got it about two years after I came to live with him. I’ve never seen him ride it, but he’s never traded it in, not even when he’s had other bikes. It held a sort of sanctity to me, I guess. I couldn’t really help myself.”

He seemed almost embarrassed at his confession. He dropped his chin and Draco could just see his lips twist in self-reprimand. “I’d never ridden a motorbike before. That should have been the first indicator that I probably shouldn’t be riding it, especially alone. But it wasn’t really all that hard to get the hang of it. Especially when I really had nothing but time to myself. I guess it was my uncle’s oversight too, leaving the keys at home.” He paused, and the self-reprimand became more pronounced. “The first time I took it out for a ride on the actual rode, it was really dark. It’s illegal, you know, for someone without a licence to drive a bike. Just like a car.”

Draco nodded, though he didn’t think Harry even noticed. The concept wasn’t foreign to him, though wizards did not hold to such rules in their own circles. Harry chewed his lip for a moment, as though contemplating the stupidity of his actions.

“I had an accident.” He flashed a small smile at Draco’s sharp breath. “It wasn’t anything too serious. I didn’t really hurt myself or anything. The bike though…” Draco feared he would chew through his lip. “It was pretty much totalled. I’m not sure how I managed to get out of that one with barely a scratch when the bike was such a mess.

“I was pretty sure my uncle would kill me for that. I even considered beating him to the punch because just the thought of how he would react was terrifying. But you know, that accidental magic is kind of handy.” He tapped the handlebars once more, stroking fingers over the glossy surface as though marvelling at their intactness. “It felt sort of stupid at the time, that I would even try to fix it with my own hands, but I felt sort of compelled. Have you ever had that happen before?”

Draco shrugged, then nodded. “Magic has been proven to act that way at times, especially accidental magic. It acts as much as a director as a wizard does when casting with a wand.” He paused, then chuckled wryly. “Or wandlessly, as your case may be.”

Harry nodded, accepting the explanation without glancing at his friend. “Well, I was sort of in a bit of a trance, I guess. Just fitting pieces back together, and then sort of… pressing on the joins. I’ve no idea how I knew where they went, but my hands seemed to work on their own. I don’t really know how long it took either, but it was in the middle of nowhere on the highway and no one passed to see me doing it so it couldn’t have been too long. And I…fixed it.”

Nodding his head gravely, Draco attempted to assume a guise of maturity. He had seen Harry slip into that trance-like state, most recently with the Dark Mark. It was a little disconcerting to behold, even fascinating as it was to hear him simply talk so much without pause. Clearing his throat, he fell back to facts in his discomfort. “A modified _Reparo,_ I would hazard as guess. On an object so large, and wandlessly… that’s quite impressive.”

“Even if I didn’t know what I was doing?”

“Even more so, if that were the case.”

Harry smiled his widest smile since stepping into Defaux’s house. Draco suspected – or hoped, maybe – that it was meant to be for him, but his friend did not take his eyes off their gentle stroking. There was something akin to adoration in his eyes, not unlike that he regarded Lyssy with. Draco found himself talking before he realised. “Should we take it with us?”

That got Harry’s attention; he whipped his head around to Draco. Not in fear this time, at least, but surprise. “What?”

“The bike. I don’t know how we’d get it back to the manor unless you want to ride it, but… Or you could use a Shrinking Charm.”

“Shrinking Charms are entirely impossible, Draco. We’ve talked about this.”

“No, they’re not.”

“Actually, they are. Or they should be. You can’t literally compress matter; break it down and discard pieces, maybe, but actually shrinking? And then growing it to it’s proper size again?”

“You’ve seen people do it before, how can you…?” Draco raised a hand to his head in dramatic exasperation. “You know what? That’s irrelevant. You won’t hear otherwise, anyway.”

Harry smiled, and Draco got the odd impression that he felt he’d won something. “No, I don’t think I will.”

“Regardless. Do you want to take it with us?”

Harry turned back towards the bike, face slowly ridding itself of the smile. He looked… sad. “No, I don’t think so.”

“Why? You should take something, it’s your right –“

“I wouldn’t feel comfortable just _taking_ this from him. Not something he adored so much. And besides, it wouldn’t feel… morally correct.”

“Not even if it was _him?”_

“Especially not if it was him.”

Draco pondered silently. He didn’t really understand it, and the thought of leaving something to Defaux because the man _liked_ it filled him with bitterness. But he would respect Harry’s wishes. Still, looking at the faintly regretful expression on his friend’s face, he vowed that he would get him a bike of his own if it was the last thing he did. “Alright, if that’s how you feel.” He turned back to the door, trotting up the steps and replacing his hand on the handle of the trunk. “Is there anything else you wanted to get?”

Harry stroked the handlebars one more time before turning to follow Draco. The regretful cast to his face was still there, but he was doing a good job of hiding it. For him, anyway. “No, that’s it.”

“Then shall we leave?” The speed of Harry’s nod was all the urging Draco needed.

Stepping outside the door, Draco gasped sharply at the renewed chill of the ageing afternoon. They hadn’t been inside for all that long, but already it seemed colder. Huddling his shoulders, he glanced over his shoulder at Harry as he heard the door close with a quiet click. His friend paused with his hand on the hard wood, a slight frown creasing his brow. “Are you okay?”

Harry glanced up, eyebrow raised. “Hmm? What?”

“You seemed distracted.” _Not for the first time but, well._ “I was just thinking that if you –“

_“’Arry Defaux! Est-ce vous?”_

The voice echoed in the otherwise silent street. Draco turned at the sound, eyes scanning across the empty driveways and still gardens to fasten upon a figure descending the steps of the house directly across the street. An older woman, short and wide, flapped a gloved hand at the boys frantically. Wrapped in so many shawls that she seemed a cocoon of blankets, with only the small, pale circle of her face bared between hat and scarf, she wasted no time in waddling down the steps from her front door and ambling across the road.

“ _Madame Georges_.” Harry’s voice was quiet, but still carried audibly across the street. It held a flatness to it that caused Draco to glance quickly back towards him. The flatness reflected the blankness of his face, that blankness that, having seen otherwise, Draco was coming to hate the sight of. He didn’t seem upset, though, or even mildly uneasy at the sight of what was evidently a known neighbour. That was more the problem.

The woman was halfway across the road by now, the puffing of her breath wafting a cloud around her than nearly hid her face. She hadn’t even stepped onto the footpath before she began babbling in words so swift that Draco doubted he would have been able to understand them, even had he spoken French.

Harry listened with blank attentiveness. A slight uplift in the woman’s words – a question? – and he replied briefly, but otherwise remained silent. The woman seemed to become more animated with each passing moment, and Draco recognised her for what she was; a gossip-monger. Somehow, even with the swathes of clothing that shrouded her, she managed to gesticulate grandly.

Draco was staring with growing resentment at the woman, Georges, and barely hearing the melodious lilting of her words when he heard a gasp behind him. Glancing swiftly at Harry, he watched his friend visibly pale to a shade mirroring the snow that blanketed the front lawn. His eyes widened slightly, and he dropped his chin, staring in something akin to panic at the ground.

_“Tu ne savais pas?”_

Georges adopted a sympathetic expression, more deeply defining the wrinkles in her face. She tutted slightly, waving another hand as though she were attempting to pat Harry on the shoulder, even from the distant edge of the front garden at which she stood. Another moment and she was rambling again, with equal speed yet an undertone of that false sympathy that set Draco’s teeth on edge.

“What did she say?”

Harry started at Draco’s interruption, a less affronted version of that Georges gave as she stumbled to a halt in her spiel. “Um…”

“Are you alright? What happened? What did she say?” He turned a glare upon the woman, and took private delight in watching her visibly shrink. He knew the effect his scowl could have, especially when it was genuine. “If she says a bad word against you, I’ll –“

“No, no it’s not that”’ Harry took a deep, shaking breath, rubbing his forehead briefly before attempting and dismally failing at a reassuring smile. “She was just telling me… My uncle.”

“What about him?” Draco didn’t care that his words sounded more like a growl. “If he’s said something…”

“No, nothing like that.” Another breath, less shaky this time. “He’s… apparently he’s in hospital.”

That was unexpected. “What? What happened?”

Harry shrugged. “She doesn’t really know. Has her speculations, of course, but nothing solid.” He glanced towards Georges, offered her a more successfully reassuring smile that seemed to mollify her slightly, and turned back to Draco. “She did say that apparently there was some screaming coming from the… his house, a few nights ago. No one knows what really happened, though. Whether it was a break in, or… they don’t know.”

Draco stared at his friend. For whatever reason, Harry actually looked regretful. _How can he be sorry that anything happened to that son of a Blast-Ended Skrewt?_ If anything, the prospect seemed to make the day seem a little warmer to Draco. _I hope that whatever befell him was even a fraction of what he deserved._

“I don’t know… if I should go and see him or –“

“What? No!” The fury burst from him in an instant, a tidal wave of anger that seemed to pour out of him like steam. Harry flinched, shoulders rising with an apologetic expression washing over his face. At the sight of his quivering tension, Draco drew a deep breath through his nose and strove to get a hold of his fury. “He doesn’t deserve it.”

“I just thought, seeing as I’m the only one who is even remotely family –”

“That man, Harry. He isn’t family. Family doesn’t treat family like he treated you.”

It was a tense moment, for Draco as much as it evidently was for Harry. It was the first time that Draco had hinted, in so many words, that he was aware of what his friend had experienced. Harry didn’t look at him, staring fixedly at his feet. Draco struggled to find exactly where to affix his own gaze, shifting it from his hands to his own feet and back to Harry again. The tension gripped both of them in a firm grasp, tightening like the twisting of a corkscrew. Even Georges, still waiting with barely contained impatience, shifted awkwardly from foot to foot with the very thickness of the unease.

All of a sudden, Harry sighed heavily. “I know. You’re right. Of course you’re right.” Glancing towards Georges, he offered a muted string of words, something that sounded like thanks and possibly a reassurance of some kind. The woman blinked rapidly, nodded slowly then with increased vigour. She replied once more in a rather more expansive turn of phrase before waving her hand again in that sympathetic air-pat and turning on her heel, waddling back across the road. Draco was quite happy to see the back of the little busy-body.

“Should we go?” Harry’s voice drew him from his glare. “If we walk fast enough, we should be able to make it in time to catch the bus back to the station.

Draco nodded absently, and, ignoring Harry’s dispute that he was ‘perfectly capable of carrying it himself’, picked up the trunk once more. The wheels didn’t help much on the icy pavement, but they were better than nothing. His friend’s disgruntlement settled quickly anyway as he fell into his thoughts.

As a result, it was a quiet trip back into Paris Metropolitan. Draco didn’t mind particularly. He was deep in thoughts of his own; about Harry, about the house, about what they had spoken of. And just as much, about the city, and the sights they’d seen, and a personal review of Muggles and their culture that seemed very much a necessity at the present. And then, the closer they drew back to the manor and the more his mind wandered, of his parents, and the gradual feeling of dread that revisited him.

The day had been a surplus of distractions, but now that it was coming to a close… He wanted to be home. No, he wanted his parents to be home, to know they were alright. It suddenly seemed imperative that he _know_ they were safe. For the first time since he’d left the manor, Draco felt a twinge of guilt rise in him, of regret; while his mother and father had been facing the devil incarnate himself, he’d been enjoying himself as a wayward tourist. He didn’t regret visiting Harry’s house; that was a necessity, and had proven beneficial beside. But the rest, no matter how enjoyable…

As though sensing the direction of his thoughts, Harry wordlessly slipped his hand into Draco’s own, their hands locking and resting upon the seat between them. Just that simple action, the contact of fingers wrapping his own, spoke more than any words possibly could. It made the rest of the trip back to the inner city and the walk back through the streets just that much more bearable.


	16. Tinkering Subordinates

The soft tug of the comb grazed against his scalp with each stroke. No matter how many times the teeth picked at his hair, it never seemed to be entirely free of knots. Not that Harry minded, particularly. It didn't even really hurt.

It was only the third time that Narcissa had taken a comb to his hair. The gentle touches had progressed to soft strokes not long ago, but apparently Narcissa found it time to progress to a higher level of contact, for whatever reasons. The first time was at Christmas, after Draco disappeared in a flurry with the tapestry Harry had gifted him. Narcissa had gazed at the afterimage of her son with an amused quirk twitching her lips, then proceeded to engage Harry in conversation about the apatite earrings and collar. She seemed nearly as excited about the possibility of communication with animals as Harry did, though conducted herself with such restraint that it was only the twinkling of her eyes that gave her away.

More than that, Narcissa had helped him as he struggled with the overwhelming experience of having a completely foreign mind linked to his own. Draco's mother was a master of mind magic and it was evidenced by her intense analysis of the situation and the helpfulness of her suggestions. Lucius had even contributed his remarks pertaining to animal psychology; Harry was nearly as startled by his wealth of knowledge on the subject as he was at the casual, comfortable conversation between the three of them.

When Lucius had disappeared in search of more coffee – though why he didn’t simply request a house elf Harry didn’t know – Narcissa had produced a polished narwhal-tooth comb and, with a slight flourish, had settled herself behind Harry’s chair and begun to stroke the brittle teeth with a feather-light touch through his hair. The instant the gentle touches had dragged through his hair, all thoughts of communication with Lyssy from Harry's mind. He had been unable to utter a word; not only was he shocked at the sudden change, but he was surprised by how little he felt discomforted by her contact. It didn't feel nauseating, nor did he reflexively cringe each time Narcissa's long fingers trailed over the back of his head in tandem with the comb. Even the first time, it never really felt unpleasant.

Throuhgout the entire experience, Narcissa kept up her light litany of superficial conversation. She had only actually commented on the occupation of her combing fingers once. “Draco used to have longer hair when he was younger. I always loved combing it. He enjoyed it too, I think, though he never admitted it.”

Harry had been able to hear the faint smile in her voice, just as he heard the regret in her sigh that followed. “Alas, I almost wish he'd held off spending so much time with his year mates in his childhood; he always wanted to mimic his father, but the fashion of youngsters at the time positively forbade him from growing it past his shoulders. He evidently found it more important to maintain social appearances than attempt a recreation of his father.” She chuckled slightly, her combing never pausing.

Harry felt a smile of his own twitch at the corners of his lips. A surprising smile, unexpected, but he couldn’t help himself. If there was one thing that Harry and Narcissa shared, and likely shared with Lucius too, one thing that would always bind them together it was their fondness for Draco. Harry openly acknowledged how much he loved hearing stories of his friend's childhood. There must have been something in the set of his shoulders, perhaps a slight tilting of his head at his eagerness that spoke to Narcissa of such. The quiet-spoken witch was only too to oblige his interest.

After a steady half an hour of brushing and quiet talking - for after ten minutes or so Narcissa had managed to draw Harry from his silence with her mention of Draco - the witch had dropped the comb and placed her hands gently upon either side of his head. A cradle, almost, delicate and feather light. She was still for a moment and though Harry couldn't see her face he could almost see her pursing her lips in consideration at whatever thought crossed her mind.

“Harry, would you mind?”

“Hmm?”

Her long fingers pressed slightly, yet still gently, just behind his temples, flicking idly at the smooth locks. “I used to braid Draco's hair when he was younger, too. I got rather inventive with it, if I do say so myself. Would you allow me?”

How could Harry do anything but nod? Besides, his unexpected comfort under Narcissa's ministrations urged him to grasp at any chance to extend the experience for as long as possible.

Narcissa wove hair with the same gentle dexterity and proficiency that she conducted everything. Harry had to struggle to keep his eyes open throughout the braiding, and found himself having to blink rapidly when she finally stopped to drag himself out of his stupor. Narcissa, giving her finished braid one final pat, slid around to kneel before him on the floor. Harry met her soft gazes she flicked a loose strand of hair from his forehead. It was one of the most foreign experiences he had ever been in; the simple affection that radiated from the woman almost drowned him.

Smiling warmly in such a way that Harry couldn't help a shy smile of his own, she reached once more into the folds of her skirts - she had to have a pocket there somewhere, surely - and removed a small black box. “Here, I haven't given you a gift yet.”

Harry had stared down at the box in trepidation as she pressed it into his hands. Biting his lip, he glanced up at her nervously. “Mrs. Malfoy –“

“Narcissa.”

He swallowed, nodded, and tried again. “Narcissa, you didn't have to get me a present.”

“I know. And I would expect that you didn't even notice I hadn't given you one?” Harry shook his head shortly. “Well, think of it this way: I give you a gift simply because I wish to. Not because I feel compelled to with the demands of Christmas, but because I want to.”

Harry felt his brow crinkle in confusion. “But why? You’ve given me so much already –“

“Because I care for you, and wish to give you something that I think you will like.”

Harry stared at Narcissa, barely aware that his mouth had fallen open. His mind had seemed to flat line as her words slowly registered. _Because I care for you_. He couldn't remember ever being told that so bluntly by anyone before. Not even Draco.

Feeling a lump lodge itself in his throat, Harry dropped his chin to his chest and stared at the box. Several swallows and a frantic attempt to muffle a sniffle later, he croaked out a reply. “But I feel like all I've done is take things off you since I've been here... I don't think –“

“You’ve accepted that which we have impressed upon you, certainly, and with more grace that most could manage.” Narcissa's warm smile never wavered for a moment. Harry saw her bend slightly in an attempt to catch his eye, but he couldn't bring himself to meet her gaze. “Tell me, Harry. Why did you give me a gift? Did you feel compelled to? Forced to?”

Harry jerked his chin upwards at that, blinking rapidly to clear the film of tears that threatened to break. “What? N-no, no, I just wanted to… as a way of saying thank you. I don't think something as simple as a hair ornament would quite cover the costs of staying in your care for three weeks... B-but it’s not like I didn’t – I mean, I wanted to get you a gift…” He dropped his chin again, attempting to hide his own embarrassment and the upwelling tears. _So stupid. What is wrong with my tears ducts these days?!_

Narcissa sighed heavily, tinged with a sound Harry couldn’t discern. It sounded almost...sad. A little regretful. “Calm yourself, I did not mean to suggest you were in the wrong for giving me a gift.” She stroked the persistent strand of hair out of Harry’s face once more, tucking it firmly behind his ear. Harry shivered at the contact but didn't flinch away. “I merely meant to impress upon you that I feel much the same way in giving to you my gift as you would in gifting me mine. It is not about feeling forced or obligated to meet the expectations of Christmas. It was because I wanted to.” She paused, and the sadness was replaced by a tinge of amusement. “Consider it a gift to myself more than you. I do so love spending money.”

Huffing in what was as much a laugh as a sob, Harry nodding slightly. Not that he thought she was exactly correct in saying as much. Their situations were different, entirely different. The degree of simply how much they owed one another could not even fit on the same scales; that Narcissa apparently simply enjoyed the act of buying was irrelevant. Harry was almost surprised that such a perceptive woman couldn't see that.

“Why don't you open it?” Narcissa's perfectly manicured nails tapped the hard lid of the box gently. Harry nodded again, feeling abruptly too drained to push himself to talk further, and slid the lid open.

He gasped with the same wonder that he had felt at the gift Draco had given him, but with none of the confusion. Nestled on a bed of champagne-coloured silk, folded with lenses polished to a perfect shine, the delicate spectacles were so much more elegant than his previous frames that they were hardly even comparable. Raising the box slightly, he squinted his eyes to attempt to peer more closely at the detailing on the frames. He could tell that they were green, and seemed to be some kind of patterning, but his very need for the spectacles prevented him from gleaning more than that.

“The frames are of _Vitius vitrium_. Only found in the tropics, and only in areas of extremely high rainfall. Wizards harvest the plant for its durable properties; when immersed in liquid fire, it hardens to a strength to rival spiders web of the same density.” As Harry flickered his glance at her questioningly, she smiled slightly. “That is to say they are very strong.” She cocked her head, considering. “Will you try them on? I only used my own measurements and an magical scan for the prescription; if it doesn't suit, they can be altered.”

With nervous fingers, Harry gingerly lifted the delicate frames from their pillow of silk. They felt slightly warm to the touch, as though the fiery immersion Narcissa had spoken of left its heat lingering still. Slipping them onto his nose, he blinked rapidly before turning to Narcissa to behold her for the first time without a hint of blurriness since his arrival. Her smile seemed even more angelic without the faint opaque filter.

“Beautiful. They suit you perfectly, even if I do say so myself.” Satisfaction curled her lips without a hint of modesty, and Harry couldn't help but return the smile.

The day of their return to Hogwarts was the third instance Narcissa had combed his hair and Harry was once again struggling to refrain from falling to sleep under the careful strokes of her comb. Draco had disappeared into his room nearly half an hour beforehand to ensure that all necessities were packed and ready. Lucius had left nearly another half an hour before that for the International Portkey Bank with the artifact in tow that would ship them back to England.

Harry didn't have much to pack. Even with the swathes of clothing that Narcissa had rained upon him, even with the gifts he had received from Christmas - the sheer number of them was a little overwhelming; he’d never even gotten a gift before - he could easily fit them in his school trunk, which had been packed since early that morning. Harry had gotten rather adept at moving quietly around the room while Draco continued to sleep, prone and sprawled on across the mattress.

At the cessation of the stroking, Harry blinked rapidly to urge the sleepiness from his eyes. Narcissa's fingers took the place of the comb and she ran her nails through his hair, catching on the last of the knots. “I think I'll try a different braid today...” Harry knew she was talking more to herself than to him, but nodded nonetheless. Not that he would object to any of her words she made had she asked him to stand on his head and sing in Gaelic. He’d probably even be eager to, if it made her happy.

Draco returned just as Narcissa was tying a band around the base of his braid. He raised one perfect blonde eyebrow at the sight, one that Harry and Narcissa silently agreed to ignore.

“Are you all packed, dear?”

Nodding, Draco slumped onto the bed beside Harry. “I decided to load a second trunk; the first just wouldn't fit everything in it.”

'Even with the Enlarging Charm?'

“I didn't want to store my broomstick with the Anti-Gravity Potion Theo sent me. Professor Snape always said that even airtight the effects can be disastrous with delicate magic.”

“Hmmm, I hadn't considered...”

Harry dropped his chin to hide the smile that threatened to surface at the mock seriousness of Narcissa's tone. He wondered if Draco heard it, but wouldn't put it past his friend to ignore any condescension on his mother's part; he probably did so unconsciously.

“Well, if that's all settled, we should move down to the parlor. Your father arrived ten minutes ago; he is eager for us to depart and I am want to agree. Punctuality is a necessity in any situation, but even more so when requesting the assistance of another.”

Harry felt a shiver trickle down his spine at Narcissa's words. The meeting with Dumbledore. Of course it had to be today. With term starting the very next day, it was essential that they ensure all measures of preparedness were taken where possible. The Malfoy's very presence back in Britain, especially with the enormous secret of Draco's apparent treachery, demanded that protection be sought for the safety of their entire family.

Swallowing, Harry chanced a glance towards his friend. Draco appeared composed, calm in his relaxed seat upon the bed, but the faint paleness, the smudges beneath his eyes, bespoke otherwise. Harry knew his friend hadn't been sleeping well, ever since the Death Eater meeting of a few days before. His parent had returned at ten o'clock on the dot, exactly as they had promised, but by that point Draco was pacing like a caged tiger. Harry would have been unsurprised to see footprints tracked across the rug.

At the sudden appearance of Narcissa and Lucius in the parlor, Draco had dropped all decorum and strode forward, locking his mother in an embrace. Narcissa had blinked in frozen surprise momentarily before easing into the embrace and stroking her son's back gently. Even taller then her as he was, Harry had never seen his friend look so young and helpless. It was a far cry from the confidence and swagger that he had shown earlier that day in their trip around Paris. Harry had seen the point, almost to the second, when Draco's good humour had begun to die and had done his best to comfort him. It had worked moderately well, but soft words of reassurance and the squeezing of hands could only go so far.

“Are you alright? He didn't hurt you? What did he say?” Draco's voice had been muffled in the shoulder of Narcissa's robe, but Harry could still hear him.

“Fine, we are fine, my love. A regular meeting. Nothing to fear.” And yet the glance towards Lucius that she had given had spoken otherwise. Harry was glad, in that moment, that Draco seemed too relieved at his parent's return to notice slight tightening of jaws and flicker of concerned shadow that darkened their eyes. Harry had shuffled awkwardly from across the room, hesitant to break into the reunion of the family but reluctant to break the stillness by departing the room. He simply waited, his heart thumping painfully as he witnessed Draco’s overwhelming relief, trying to ignore the subtle glances Narcissa and Lucius shared over their son’s head.

Draco had been high strung ever since. He attempted to maintain his light-heartedness – and succeeded to some degree – but seemed to get more frustrated as the days went by. Any of his attempts to glean an insight into the happenings of the meeting were skillfully diverted by his mother and father, leaving a decidedly sullen and mulish Draco to grumble into Harry's sympathetic ear. Harry didn't mind. Besides, Draco had come with him to the House; it was the least he could do to listen to the bemoaning of an admittedly worried friend. Harry had heard far worse complaints than Draco’s genuine worrying in his past; it was almost a relief in comparison, and he found he had endless patience to reply to Draco's repeated and generally rhetorical questions.

Memories of the visit to his uncle’s house helped with that some. Conversely, his worry for his friend helped to allay some of the gnawing thoughts that curled time and time again through his thoughts, hanging emptily upon confronting no resolution. Where was his uncle? Had he become seriously ill? Madame Georges said something about screams being heard from the house. Had someone broken in, attacked his uncle? A burglary-turned-attempted-homicide?

Harry knew he shouldn't be worried. He didn't need Draco to tell him that, though the blonde continued to, repeatedly, each time he drew himself from his own pondering to become aware of Harry's distracted frown.

“That man doesn't deserve a second of your consideration.” He always started with such, folding his arms and raising an eyebrow with a thinning of lips. It was the perfect blend of Lucius and Narcissa. “If he is ill, or was attacked or... whatever, it’s karma.”

“Karma? I wouldn't think wizards believed in karma.”

Draco sniffed self-righteously. “Of course! It’s the unanimous judiciary system of the entire universe. Everybody knows that.”

Harry had to smile at that. He couldn't help himself. It was just so Draco. “Didn't know you considered much about the universe at large, either.” But he had said it quietly enough that Draco could pretend he didn't hear.

Oddly enough, Draco's words seemed to stick. For whatever reason, even though he was slowly coming to understand rather than just to accept that what his uncle had done to him as horribly, _horribly_ wrong, he couldn't help contemplating the fate of the man that had ruled his world for a third of his life. It was the first time he had become aware of the possibility to both fear and - dare he say - hate someone but also fear _for_ them. It was that which confused him possibly the most.

He didn't, ever, bring up going to visit his uncle, though. He didn’t even consider it himself.

Draco's sharp voice cut into his thoughts. “Wait, did you say Father is already here? Why didn't you tell me? I would have hurried my packing.”

Narcissa's amusement radiated from her so strongly that Harry didn't even need to turn to recognize it. “I had assumed you would be moving at utmost haste without such a catalyst, Draco. Did I perhaps assume wrongly?”

Draco huffed, folding his arms across his chest. “I was going as fast as I could. I just... could have maybe spent a little less time reading in between sorting.”

Patting Harry's head, Narcissa chuckled quietly, stood and gracefully glided towards the door. “No harm done. Come, boys. I believe it is about time.” And with a swish of her robes she disappeared into the hallway.

Draco rose with his mother’s grace, fingers slipping into a gentle hold of Harry's own. The handhold wasn't unexpected. Rather, Harry would have been almost surprised if Draco hadn't held his hand. “Since when has mother been doing your hair?”

Harry shrugged, patting at the braid that draped across his shoulder. “She hasn't been, really. Just a couple of times, once at Christmas and that other time when you had tea with your father for nearly an hour.”

“Huh.”

“What?”

“Nothing. Just surprised.” _That you'd let her_ went unsaid, but Harry merely shrugged again and didn't expand.

Lyssy rubbed herself along Harry’s leg as he followed Draco out of the room. A faint mew, a bunching of muscles and she had launched herself neatly onto Harry’s shoulder with only a slight pinch of claws into skin through his sleeves. Such a considerate cat. With the precarious perch, she barely wavered in her seat, tail flicking around his head as she balanced. Draco rolled his eyes in as the sight but didn’t comment.

_**"Where? Where to, Harry? Going?"** _

Harry raised a hand to the little cat’s head, rubbing gently at the cyanogriffin-feather collar around her neck and eliciting a soft purr. Understanding had been slow at first; the swarm of images coloured by emotion hadn’t embodied words so much. It was more… impressions, just as Harry had attempted to describe to Draco days before. Practice since Christmas had smoothed the confusion markedly, and Harry was now fairly confident that he could comprehend many of Lyssy’s disjointed messages. The faint scolding he dealt him whenever his misinterpreted helped.

It was wonderful, however, even with the not-quite-complete understanding. That Harry could actually _understand_ her… The implications of such a communication itself were staggering, and that was disregarding the flood of delight he felt at every phrase she commented. Because they were _talking._

The words, however, were not words as such but more of a rapid firing of images that projected into his mind, tinged with a soft, foreign warmth and blunt entitlement that was definitely Cat and purely Lyssy. An image of the House, of Hogwarts, of the Manor, of a little cubby-hole that Harry recognised from his uncle Stephen’s backyard, coupled with hesitant walking and a quavering twinge that bespoke askance. Harry was fairly certain he had interpreted Lyssy’s ‘words’ correctly, but he could never been entirely sure.

 _ **"We’re going back to the Big House.**_ " An image of Hogwarts, of entering through the front doors, accompanied by comfort and warmth. _**"We will have to travel by portkey, however."**_

Lyssy murmured, switching her tail as Harry projected the images of their previous two portkeys; an ornamental pigeon and a rather impressive fascinator with a feather than she had stared at with the fixation of a huntress. " _ **Bad, feels yucky, don’t like.**_ " The distaste would have been evident even without the mental image of a scrunched face, taut whiskers and gagging.

 _ **"I know, but it will only be a short trip. Better then travelling by plane.**_ " She murmured her disgruntlement again at the image of the airborne vehicle. " _ **Besides, you’ll get to see Hagrid again. He can give you some –"**_

_**"Rats! Rats, big noses and snuffly, scurry, they scurry fast. Good to catch!"** _

Harry smiled at the abrupt change. Lyssy was like that. It was nearly impossible to keep up with the flowing moods. She seemed to have entirely forgotten about the mention of the portkey with his proffered mental image of the half-giant gameskeeper. He wasn’t sure if that was an animal thing or simply Lyssy herself. She did dote on Hagrid, though; Harry had realised as much even without the collar’s communication highway. Not only did the giant professor seem to revel in offering her morsels of whatever he kept in his seemingly bottomless pockets but he didn’t dispute her attendance in his class.

“What did she say?”

Harry glanced towards Draco, raising an eyebrow. The blonde shrugged. “You get this sort of glazed look when you’re talking to her. It’s hard to miss.”

Harry felt a blush warm his cheeks. _Damn pale skin._ And then g _lazed? Great, now I’ve got another thing my face chooses to do without my consent._ He wouldn’t trade the conversations with Lyssy for anything, though. Not even if it entailed pulling strange facial expressions.

“She doesn’t really like portkeys.”

“Ah, well, no, most animals don’t.”

“We didn’t have a great experience with them the last couple of times.” Harry stroked another hand beneath Lyssy’s collar. ”She wouldn’t let go of my shirt for a good half a day the first time.”

Draco chuckled, shooting a glance at the little cat now staring fixedly at him. “At least you can actually tell her what’s going on this time. Though I can’t say that I particularly like portkey transport either. Brooms are much better. And we start Apparation lessons this term.”

“Apparation’s the teleporting thing, yes?” Harry distractedly poked Lyssy’s forehead to quieten the grumbling of images into his mind. " _ **Laughing at me, he is amused! It is not amusing, it is yucky, bad, feels bad!**_ " Her tail switched him in the face in her agitation.

“Tele… no, it’s called Apparation.”

“But it’s essentially –“ " _ **Silly boy, thinking to try to move anywhere not on his own paws. Dangerous, and silly. Silly kitten…"**_

“Is she interrupting our conversation? She’s doing that more, lately. It’s a little distracting.” Draco didn’t really seem annoyed. If anything, he appeared more curious than put out.

“Sorry. She’s actually trying to contribute, I think. Or… at least it’s relevant.”

Draco raised an eyebrow. “She’s listening in on what we’re saying? Can she actually understand it?”

Nodding, Harry waved another tail flick from his face. “She understands it better now than before we started Talking. Though I was surprised at how much she actually picked up. Not words so much – though she can even get some of them now – but simply comprehension…”

“Do you think it’s because of the collar? That she’s, what, listening in to your interpretation or something and cataloguing it?”

Harry shrugged. “I don’t know. I guess. It’s a lot easier to understand when she talks to me now than it was at first. I’m not sure if that’s attributed more to her understanding or my own, though.”

Draco nodded, considering. “It’s sort of interesting.”

‘Would you like to give it a go?’

Consideration immediately shifted to apprehension. “No, no I don’t think so. I’m not really an animal person. I’ve a history of poor experiences, particularly with magical creatures.” His eyes faded distantly for a moment, and his lip curled as though recalling an unpleasant incident.

“Maybe this would help with that?”

‘Perhaps, but no, I’m fine thank you.’ He seemed slightly intimidated at the thought and Harry withheld further comment.

Lucius was waiting with what Harry had come to recognise as his own form of impatience. While he acknowledged that he was rather adept at observing the habits and reactions of those around him - he'd had to be, what with school and his family - he didn't think that he would have recognised it in Lucius had he not spent the last few weeks in contact with him. Lucius wore the perfected mask that Draco was still honing and it fit him like a second skin after what must have been a lifetime of practice.

The senior Malfoy inclined his head at their entrance, snakehead cane stamping idly beside his foot. Narcissa stepped up to his side, tilting her head in such a way that even his frozen mask softened slightly.

“The portkey?”

Lucius hefted a lidless teapot. Narcissa sighed. “How unrefined.”

Draco and Lucius both nodded in agreement, but Harry simply buried his chin once more to hide the twitch of a smile. He was getting good at that, ensuring his face was hidden if he couldn’t prevent it from displaying his emotions like a portrait on a canvas. The smiles were still unexpected, sparking unannounced with incredible frequency nowadays as though making up for missed past opportunities, but despite such unexpectedness he was getting good at predicting the instances that would elicit them. It made dealing with the corresponding reactions of his fellows far easier when they missed his amusement half the time.

Stepping forward at Draco's insistent pull, he placed a finger of the polished porcelain, the other hand rising to draw Lyssy into to huddle closely against his chest. The little cat squirmed slightly, but at Harry’s precaution stilled in nervous tension. Draco followed his lead. “To where are we going exactly, Father?”

“Hogsmeade. There is no point stopping by on the way. The elves will take the luggage.”

“You had no difficulty diverting the location from the International In-Port?” Narcissa frowned slightly, perhaps a touch concerned.

“For me? No.” There was no smugness in Lucius’ words; Harry admired that he could say as much with such objectiveness. “Floria is known to take the odd unconventional portkey, as it were.”

“Of course.” Narcissa ceded, bowing her head, and didn’t question her husband further. She no longer even seemed particularly interested.

“Now, we should leave. The meeting with Dumbledore is scheduled for,” he glanced at his pocket watch, “less than an hour from now. On three, if we could. One, two...”

Harry hadn't experienced much by way of portkey travel. Only twice, in fact, and both of them international trips; travelling with Professor McGonagall on that first trip to England before he’d started at Hogwarts, and then back again for the Christmas holidays. He would readily confess that even, after two experiences of such, he could look no more favourably upon the mode of transportation.

The pinch behind his navel, not painful but still discomforting, seemed to tug him into a whirlpool of confusion where he seemed to be pulled in every direction at once. Weightlessness gripped him, and the only thing that grounded him was the feel of smooth porcelain under his fingertips. He couldn’t even feel Lyssy against his chest anymore.

And suddenly, as abruptly as it had started, it stopped. Slammed to a stop, in fact. Harry's knees buckled and he fell rather pathetically upon the floor. A wooden floor, he registered distractedly. He blinked around him, shaking his head to rid it of the dizziness that slowly morphed back into stability. A glance towards Draco left him slightly mollified from his own collapse when he noticed his friend struggling to keep his own feet. At least the other boy hadn't fallen, though.

Steadying himself, Draco grinned down at where Harry sprawled on the floor. “Come on, no need to so embarrassed. You've only done that, what, twice?'”

The reassurance did nothing to dispel Harry's blush. Reaffirming his hand on a frozen and grasping Lyssy, Harry took the proffered hand and allowed Draco to tug him to his feet, glancing towards Lucius and Narcissa as he did so. They, naturally, looked no more ruffled then they had in the parlor of their Parisian manor. Lucius had already shrunken the teapot and slipped it into the pocket of his robes.

Glancing around the room, Harry noted that they appeared to have been transported to a rather quaint establishment that reeked of coziness. Lace curtains were pulled back to reveal the blinding whiteness of morning snow, illuminating the delicate lines of the room: a neat little white table adorned by a floral tablecloth and dainty chairs with matching cushions. A flickering fireplace with a grill of the same polished whiteness. Even the floor - yes, it was definitely made of wood - was a paleness that seemed to subvert the conventions of timber.

“Puddifoot’s?” Draco sounded faintly incredulous as he too registered the room. Harry recalled the little teashop in Hogsmeade and blinked in surprise. Lucius had suggested the kindly old woman was less licit in her affairs than was widely considered, but he could hardly perceive the round woman with her impeccable bun and welcoming smile as anything but a simple shop owner.

“Indeed.”

“What, is this a private room or something? I didn’t even know Puddifoot offered private rooms.” Draco’s voice took on a petulance that bespoke a perceived slight, as though his parents had deliberately kept such knowledge from him.

Narcissa and Lucius pointedly ignored his pout, the latter leading the way from the room in long strides. Harry and Draco followed in their wake, Draco leading and Harry right behind him, murmuring to a shaken Lyssy. The little cat trembled slightly, grumbling under her breath and through the mental link both. Her claws pressed deeply through the woolen layers of his outer coat. He stroked her head reassuringly, offering images of Featherwood’s plump bed and as many rats as Hagrid could provide.

Madame Puddifoot met them in the hallway as if she had been expecting them which, Harry considered, she probably had. She nodded her head politely at the two elder Malfoys and spared a smile for Harry and Draco. “Mr. Malfoy, Mrs. Malfoy. A pleasure.”

“That it is, Floria. It has been too long.” Lucius nodded his head respectfully in return. His public mask was firmly affixed without a crack of emotion breaking across the smooth paleness of his face.

“Will you be heading to the Three Broomsticks, my Lord? Shall I send a runner to book you rooms?”

“If you would, I would be in your debt.” Lucius bowed his head once more. “But we make for the school first and foremost.”

Madame Puddifoot nodded and didn’t question further, though from the curiosity sparkling in her eyes Harry thought her tongue was itching to ask further. “I have a carriage if you…?”

Narcissa stepped forwards, smiling with her own public formality but with a hint of gratitude evident nonetheless. “Thank you, that would be very appreciated.”

Madame Puddifoot bowed her head once more, turned on her heel and scurried away. The Malfoys and Harry followed in her wake, catching the attention of a few curious diners as they passed through the open front of the shop. The plump little woman directed them to a carriage that could not have suited the floral and pastels of the teashop better had they tried. It wasn’t pulled by thestrals, Harry noted absently, but instead by some sort of short horse-like creature with a flattened snout, deep chest and the flat, padded feet of a snow leopard. Harry made a note to look it up when he was next in the library. Or with Hermione.

Draco snorted as he brushed the lacy curtains from the doorways to climb inside, but he refrained from commenting. Probably because of his parent’s stoic silence. Or perhaps it was a growing nervousness that stilled his tongue. As they settled onto the padded seats, Harry glanced at his friend just in time to catch a frown of worry smoothing from his brow

The carriage door closed with a snap and the slosh of carriage wheels through half-melted snow was all that broke the silence.

* * *

Puddifoot’s carriage dropped them off at the very entrance to Hogwarts. The temperature was markedly colder than in Hogsmeade, even without the steady fall of snow, so Harry was unsurprised to see no students outdoors. Following Lucius’ obvious lead, he trailed alongside Draco through the warm, welcoming doors of Hogwarts castle.

It was an odd experience, returning. It didn’t feel like all that long since he had left, but so much had happened since Harry had last beheld the candlelit stone walls, listened to the distant buzz of student chatter as they trickled into the Great Hall for a late breakfast, that it felt disjointed. He wouldn’t say bad; no, Hogwarts had been the first place he had ever felt closest to happy in his entire life. Returning was odd, but left him feeling almost… peaceful.

The same could obviously not be said for Draco, and despite their masks of cold indifference Harry suspected that Lucius and Narcissa were similarly experiencing feelings of nervousness. Harry supposed that most would not have suspected Draco to be unnerved either, but he’d spent far too much time with his friend over the past few weeks to be unable to read the tension in his face The slight tightness around the eyes, their slight darkening, the firm set of his jaw. Harry shifted Lyssy slightly in his arms so he could brush his palm along Draco’s tight fingers. The blonde boy started slightly, but offered a small smile and gripped the offered hand.

The stone griffin outside the Headmaster’s office turned its head slowly as they approached, following their every move like the eagle it’s head resembled. Clearing his throat, Lucius offered the password, “aniseed squirts.” In that moment, Harry knew that Draco was more nervous than he let on; he didn’t comment on the choice of passwords, not even offering a derogatory snort.

Dumbledore met them with a solemn tilt of his head as they filed into the room. Hands folded and cradling his chin from where he sat behind his imposing desk, the old man regarded each of them with closed consideration through his half-moon spectacles. He did not look particular askance, nor even bat an eyelid, at Harry’s presence. Harry could only assume that Dumbledore had been informed of his attendance, or that the old man was as adept as hiding his emotions as Lucius was.

A quick glance around the room showed it to be in much the same state as Harry’s previous visits, few as they were. Twinkling artifacts that he would have assumed were some more elaborate Muggle creations had the elderly wizard not fondly informed him otherwise; something that looked like a telescope with additional contraptions attached, a mobile the spun across half of the space overhead with oddly shaped pieces that looked like hieroglyphs, an assortment of bronze instruments displayed on shelving along the walls and more books than Harry thought entirely necessary in a professional office space. Fawkes the phoenix regarded the new arrivals with a cocked head, glorious in full-bloom and plume flaring impressively. Harry wondered idly if a phoenix would be responsive to the use of the apatite earring and collar. He suspected they would be awfully intelligent.

“Please, take a seat.”

Dumbledore’s voice was deep and soft, welcoming even, but the Malfoys only stiffened before stepping forwards to the four chairs lined before the desk. Harry thought they resembled those afforded to students in the classroom, but Lucius and Narcissa didn’t comment, settling themselves onto the hardwood. He noticed with mild surprise that Draco’s parents immediately stationed themselves on either end of the line of chairs, forcing Draco and Harry to sit between them. _Is that… protective?_ He could understand it from Draco, but even with his acknowledgment of Narcissa’s fondness for him in particular he found it a little unexpected in it’s inclusion of himself too. Still, he didn’t pause or comment as they settled themselves in the remaining seats, Harry sitting to Draco’s left and beside Narcissa. It felt oddly reassuring to sit between the two of them. Like a united front.

Silence ensued. It seemed to leave a faint ring in the air, broken only by a soft tinkling and something that sounded like a babbling brook. Harry couldn’t tell where it was coming from. The waiting had just reached the point of awkwardness when Dumbledore opened his mouth once more.

“I believe I understand the nature of your request for a meeting.”

Lucius leant forward slightly in his seat, but otherwise made no motion of unease. He didn’t even appear tense. “I would expect you would.”

“You seek protection.”

It wasn’t a question, but Lucius and Narcissa nodded in synchrony. Draco simply dropped his eyes to the carpet before his feet. Harry thought he looked ashamed. He squeezed his friend’s hand reassuringly, but Draco respond.

“We seek whatever protection can be afforded from the threat that is the Dark Lord.”

Dumbledore appeared nothing if not a frozen statue, even his long, curling beard seemingly carved from stone. All of a sudden, Harry felt as if he attended a masquerade at which he was the only one without a mask. Even Draco, with his bowed head, hid his nerves more adeptly than Harry could. As the thought passed through his head, he became aware he was chewing his lip, the fingers still propping Lyssy to his chest itching at his collarbone through his thick coat. With a concerted effort, he forced his hands still.

Dumbledore finally closed his eyes, lowering his hands to fold on the flat plane of the desk before him. “Surely you understand it cannot be so simple.”

“Please,” Draco abruptly burst from his silence. “It’s my fault, all my fault that my family is endangered.”

“Draco –“

“No, mother, it’s true. It is my incompetency in the task the Dark Lord has given me that put us all in danger. If I had only…”

“Fixed the cabinet? Created a bypass into the school that could be utilized by Death Eaters, to gain access to one of the few remaining sanctuaries of Wizarding Britain?”

Draco froze, his face paling rapidly. “How do you…?”

Dumbledore stared at Draco over the top of his spectacles. Not unkindly, but not entirely welcoming either. “I have my ways, Draco. You of all people should know there is more that occurs beneath the surface than meets the eye.” Turning his attention from Draco – whose hand had begun to faintly tremble in Harry’s grasp – he focused once more on Lucius and Narcissa.

“Please understand, a shift in allegiance is… unusual, to say the least. There can be little trust established on the grounds of such a relationship.”

Lucius tapped his cane on the floor between his feet, the only indicator of agitation. _“You_ understand, that such a blatant show of disloyalty to the Dark Lord as ‘shifting allegiance’ would result in our untimely destruction.”

“Ah, so you do not wish to alter your beliefs? Sacrifice for the common good?” The bluntness of the old man’s words left Harry blinking rapidly. More, the coldness… He would never have thought Dumbledore could sound so merciless. “You seek protection, and yet give nothing in return.”

“We will provide what we can afford –“

“But ultimately, your loyalties remain with Voldemort.” Dumbledore ignored the flinches of the Malfoys, pressing his fingers slightly into the desktop. “Do you have so little faith in the power of the light that you will not take a chance?”

Buzzing silence met the old man’s words. Lucius and Narcissa exchanged a glance that seemed to speak a thousand words. It was Narcissa who finally spoke. “A chance is a risk, and a risk concerning the Dark Lord can be deadly. We simply believe that such a blatant show of treachery would ultimately lead to our deaths. Albus Dumbledore, I care not for this war. I have long since felt the need to withdraw, but my loyalty to my family and the bonds that tie them to the Dark Lord are unbreakable as of yet.”

Closing her eyes briefly, she turned to face her son. Draco glanced up at her sideways but kept his head bowed. “And yet our situation has reached a crisis. My son’s life is being placed directly into the firing line. If I truly believed that throwing the full force of my faith behind your cause, Headmaster, would ensure his continued safety, then I would do so wholeheartedly.

“However, certain… considerations must be accounted for. Not the least of which include the expectations the Dark Lord holds for my son. We have blindsided him temporarily, but it shall not remain so for long, I fear. Not after…” She trailed off, her eyes tightening slightly as she continued to stare at her son.

At the soft words, Draco raised his head fully, frowning. “Mother, what happened? What aren’t you telling me?”

Narcissa swallowed, but turned instead to Dumbledore. “Please. It is not for the safety of my husband and myself that we have sought your protection. Please, simply extend a your shield to cover my son.”

“Mother –“

“I fear that, if you do not do so, than the Dark Lord will have him killed before the year is out. For he cannot possibly fulfill the task that has been appointed him.”

“Mother!”

Narcissa ignored her son’s cracking voice. Her mouth was pinched slightly, as though she were struggling to hold back a sob. It was a fracture in her blank expression that Harry found heartbreaking to see, and not only because he cared for her.

Dumbledore pondered her words with as little sympathy as one would offer a stone cast into the ruthless crashing of the sea. Propping his chin once more on his hands, he closed his eyes gravely. “He has extended his orders.”

“Yes. It is an impossible task.”

Harry followed Draco’s gaze as it flickered between his parents. “What is this? Extended his orders? What did he say?”

Narcissa was silent. Lucius did not even look at his son, simply drilled Dumbledore with a flat stare.

“Mother? Father? What did he say?”

Finally, Narcissa’s thinned lips parted. It was almost a gasp. “It need not concern you, Draco. It is under control.”

“How can you say that, when it does concern me?! Me, most of all. If he has ordered me to do something –“

“Draco, be silent.” Lucius cut across his son’s pleading words, muffling the flow of demands that bordered on a cry. “It is precisely for this reason, for the continued interest of the Dark Lord in you, that we seek support from the side of the light. Do not question that which your elders have deemed unnecessary to share.”

Harry winced at each word, but he knew his cringe was nothing compared to what Draco managed to hide. The young wizard froze, jaw tightening, fingernails digging into Harry’s palm. He could almost see the thoughts trickle from his friend’s ears. _They hid something from me, something big. And now they treat me like a child…_ Yet for all the affront that he just failed to hide, he didn’t speak.

Dumbledore considered Lucius intently before sighing deeply. There was a knowing light in his eye and Harry suspected that, for all his and Draco’s ignorance, the headmaster had likely guessed the secret the Malfoy’s kept from their son. “I have to wonder at the suddenness of your change of heart. You letter was sent before Christmas; your decision was evidently made prior to further developments on the matter, namely your latest meeting with the Dark Lord.” He paused, raising an eyebrow slowly, expectantly.

“He is no longer a follower of the Dark Lord.”

“You have made as much clear, Mr. Malfoy.”

Narcissa hissed slightly and Harry nearly fell from his seat at the display of anger. It seemed to… unexpected. Uncharacteristic, even in Narcissa’s protectiveness. He clutched Lyssy more tightly to his chest, ignoring the wriggling and grumbles of _**"Bad, talk bad, angry, scared?**_ " that rippled through his mind. Narcissa was evidently at her wits end, and was struggling to contain herself. He didn’t need the little cat to inform him of what was was spelled out plainly for them all to see.

“I do not mean he has forsaken the Dark Lord in _favour_ of the side of Light. He has simply turned from the path the Dark Lord has placed him upon.”

“I fear I do not know what you mean.”

Narcissa hissed once more, turning her head to stare her cold fury at the far wall. Lucius, the more level-headed of the two at least in that moment, continued in her silence. “Draco has been removed from his enslavement of the Dark Lord. He has been rid of the Dark Mark and is not longer bound to the Dark Lords magic.”

For the first time, Harry thought Dumbledore looked surprised. Shocked, even, if such an expression were possible upon his face. Not in the way that most people express shock, however; there was no jaw dropping, widening of eyes, rapid paling. Rather, the man froze to an even greater resemblance of a statue than before, his eyes sharpening and flicking abruptly to Draco, who flinched under the intensity of the stare.

“Is that so?” His voice was so hushed that had any of them been breathing louder than a whisper it would have been missed.

Draco, swallowing loudly, cast a glance at his father. After a careful nod from Lucius, he reached his free hand to the sleeve of his left arm and rolled up the thick wool and cotton robe beneath. The paleness of his exposed forearm was even more starkly so with the absence of the snake and skull tattoo that Harry had seen only once.

“It is no glamour. You may check for yourself.” Narcissa, apparently finding her self-imposed silence intolerable, cut her words sharply towards the frozen headmaster. “I have affirmed myself; the link is completely gone.”

Rising abruptly from his seat, Dumbledore swept around his desk and strode forwards. He looked impressively tall standing, seeming to loom slightly over the seated occupants and none the less intimidating for the robes that Harry still considered more akin to a bath robe or elaborate dressing gown than an outfit for day wear. His flopping hat slipped slightly as he tipped his head down towards Draco. The right hand and clasped wand extended from the sleeve of his robes, waving towards the exposed arm.

“If I may.” It wasn’t really a question.

Harry watched closely as Dumbledore waved his wand over his friends arm. The man didn’t speak a word, but that didn’t mean much, especially from his standpoint; speaking while casting magic always would seem unnecessary to Harry. What concerned him, however, was the intensity that the old man stared at his friend, as though he sought to bore holes into the exposed arm. That anger, that unfamiliar emotion that only seemed to grip him when Draco was concerned, lifted its head slowly, warily. He had to bite his lip firmly to prevent himself from glaring at the headmaster.

 _He’s just checking, just to make sure the bond it broken._ Harry knew it was broken. He didn’t know how, exactly; he couldn’t quite recall the exact sequence of events that had lead to the mark’s disappearance, but he knew for certain that any trace of that murky darkness was removed from Draco. Eyes locking onto the pale arm, he could see it – like the difference between a dirty wound and the cleanness of healed skin, it was almost laughably apparent.

It was perhaps because of the focus of his attention, that faint flicker of sixth sense that he had come to associate with his magic, that Harry became aware of the similar shadow of murky darkness within the room. Shifting his eyes back to Dumbledore, who still loomed and twitched his wand over Draco’s hunched form, he felt his eyes drawn like an Ouija board to the tips of the old man’s fingers. Blackened fingers, only just visible at the cuff of his sleeve.

Harry had seen it before. Not the first time he had seen him in Paris but at the beginning of the school year, upon visiting the old wizard in his office for the first time. The wrinkled skin that seemed almost burned, the way the old man had imperceptibly hidden it, covering the blackening, in such a way that slipped the fingers from view with his natural movements. At the time, Harry had barely considered it; the shriveled skin had looked unhealthy to him, but what did he know of wizard injuries?

With the familiarity to Draco’s tattoo, to the sickly darkness that seemed not to divert light but to actively suck it in, he could see it for what it was. Perhaps it had grown worse, that darkness, that he was somehow able to perceive it better. Or perhaps he was just more in tune with manipulating his magic, more sensitive. It didn’t look good. Harry felt his eyes caught upon the blackened fingertips, fixated.

“How did this occur?” Dumbledore’s voice was distant, an idle thought, buzzing in Harry’s ears. He shook himself in an attempt to pay attention once more.

“You knew he was marked.” Narcissa sounded resentful, as though she blamed the man for knowing and not acting on such knowledge.

“Yes. How did this occur?” The headmaster did not even raise his eyes from Draco, eyes narrowed in consideration.

As one, all of the Malfoys turned towards Harry. Harry, eyes still fixed upon Dumbledore’s hand, only tore his gaze from the wrinkled, blackened fingertips when the headmaster shifted, sleeve slipping to cover the damaged skin. Harry blinked rapidly and lifted his gaze meeting the elderly wizard’s. It was intimidating enough to cause him to shrink into his seat slightly. He was only slightly eased by Lyssy’s _**"Don’t worry, my Harry, I’ll protect you"**_. Here words were oddly touching, a comforting reassurance.

“Harry?”

Swallowing, Harry blinked once more, regretting for the first time the braid that pinned his fringe from flopping across his eyes. “I don’t really know, sir. I don’t remember it entirely clearly. It just felt wrong, so I burned it away.”

“Burned?”

Shrugging, he tucked his chin into the soft fuzz atop Lyssy’s head, drawing her up his chest with his free hand. “It’s what it felt like. I don’t really know how I did it.”

“But you know why?” Narcissa spoke with a steady intensity, though absent of the hiss that she had directed at Dumbledore. Her gaze held something bordering on tenderness that Harry wasn’t entirely comfortable with but could appreciate nonetheless. He nodded; he knew what Narcissa was asking. Their brief conversations on the topic, in Draco’s sparse absences, were telling.

“When I saw it for the first time, it just felt so wrong. Almost like an injury. I could feel that Draco was hurting, the sort of hurt of a sickness when the body was fighting back.” He paused, stroking his chin on Lyssy’s head once more. He couldn’t seem to get the words out right. “It felt like Draco was trying to repel it, like a parasite… or something. I just… helped him along with the expulsion.”

He could feel Dumbledore’s eyes boring into his downturned head but didn’t look up. “Are you familiar with medical procedures, Harry? Perhaps read something on bonding and curse-breaking?”

Harry shook his head. “If anything, Professor Dumbledore, I would say it was more like a compulsion than a bond. From what I’ve read, and from what I felt from Draco…” He trailed off. Unwilling to continue under Dumbledore’s scrutiny.

Not that it mattered. With a murmured “interesting”, Dumbledore had turned his gaze upon attention to Draco. Draco weathered the man’s stare better than Harry had. “You reluctantly became bonded to Voldemort through the Dark Mark? You did not desire the mark?”

“What sort of a question is that? Of course he didn’t.: Narcissa’s hiss was back, more sibilant than ever.

“I merely question, Mrs. Malfoy, as Draco has not made any attempt to seek assistance himself, nor hinder his progression in the task allocated him by Voldemort himself.” Dumbledore’s tone was grave. Harry felt as though he were at a hearing, the headmaster a solemn judge reading the verdict. “Trust cannot be placed in one who has given no evidence to suggest it is warranted.”

“He is only a boy!”

“A boy who has accepted the role of a man, and made decisions accordingly.” Even Draco hunched under Dumbledore’s gaze this time. From the clench of his jaw, Harry thought he was attempting to hold back an exclamation. “I understand your need, and the protection you seek is without doubt necessary; Voldemort would not take kindly to such a blatant display of so called disloyalty. However, the very manner of the breaking of the bond, not to mention an inability to ensure that you remain outside of influence of Voldemort and reject any future orders, leaves me hesitant. I do not wish to endanger those currently beneath my protection for the safety of a one.”

Harry cringed, but inside his anger boiled. Dumbledore was refusing – _refusing_ – to help Draco when he was so obviously in need. Rather than extend a hand of assistance, he resisted on the grounds of uncertainty. Harry didn’t know why but for whatever reason he felt suddenly disappointed with the old man. _I thought you would do anything to help someone. I hardly know you well enough to make such a speculation, but I thought…_

“How can I show my loyalty?”

Dumbledore’s gaze tightened. “Prove yourself.”

“How dare you –“

“Mother, please! We are asking for his help. If he needs proof…” Draco drew a shuddering breath. “What can I do?”

The elderly wizard abruptly seemed to age ten years. The intensity, the sheer power and the intimidation of his looming form, dwindled to a mere shadow of its former self. He took a step back, and Draco’s back immediately straightened. Harry found it incredible the strength his friend seemed to draw from nowhere, simply with the onus upon himself, the very prospect of taking his fate into his own hands rather than weighing upon the shoulders of his parents. A quick glance towards Narcissa and Lucius showed a similar pride, though with apprehension. Thankfully, neither made to interrupt.

Sighing, Dumbledore closed his eyes sagely. “I am sorry, Draco. Circumstances and fear for the many make me a hard man. I am not untouched by your plight, yet must take the necessary precautions to ensure that, for the good of our cause and the safety of those I strive to protect, that I leave no room for opportunity.”

Draco nodded. Harry marveled at his resumed in composure, so different from the childish pout of but moments before. _Just from being treated as something approaching an equal. He is strengthened when he knows others see him as responsible._

“I understand.” Draco’s voice held the steel of his fathers. “What can I do?”

“Ultimately, a magical Vow would be the most appropriate measure to ensure that both our needs are satisfied.” Narcissa and Lucius both stiffened, but Dumbledore ignored them. “An Unbreakable Vow would be impractical, as we both bring needs and desires to the table.”

“What do you propose, then?” Draco paused, frowning a moment to consider. “And what do you ask of me?”

This time, Dumbledore did turn towards Narcissa and Lucius. His eyes drilled with that same intensity that had caused Harry to stutter and silence. “Your part will be minimal in this exchange, Draco. A simple adherence to the rules of the school and an active attempt to extricate yourself from Death Eater activities will suffice. In exchange, I offer you the protection of myself, this school and the Order of the Phoenix. I will offer you the same degree of protection as I have others who have been… perhaps more significantly involved with Voldemorts regime, in exchange for your relinquishing your support of him.”

‘The Order has been reestablished.’ Lucius spoke quietly, but there was something feverish in his usually cold gaze. Excitement? Relief?

“It has. And as such, I believe that the degree of protection you seek can be adequately afforded.”

Draco frowned, staring at the floor once more. “You aren’t asking much, considering. You don’t really get anything out of it at all.”

With his eyes still trained on the floor, Draco didn’t see the pointed glance that Dumbledore directed towards the elder Malfoys that Harry witnessed. It was so brief that he almost missed it, but the slight tilt of both their chins suggested a silent exchange. Something they wanted to keep from Draco and himself. What are they doing? They’re offering him something…? To ensure Draco’s safety? What…?’

_**"You think hard, too much thinking. Just speak, demand they tell you."** _

Harry gave a small smile at Lyssy’s suggestion. " _ **You would think of such an approach – to simply demand. So like a cat."**_

 _ **"Of course. I**_ **a** **m** _ **Cat.**_ " He ignored her purr of satisfaction, ears pricking as Dumbledore spoke once more.

“Can you not conceive that I will offer you my protection without further sacrifice on your part?”

Harry gave a mental snort. _No, not after what you were saying before._

“No, I cannot believe that.” Draco mirrored his thoughts, jaw tightening. “And I wouldn’t expect you to.”

Sighing, as though the suggestion saddened him greatly, Dumbledore nodded acceptance. “Then let this be your first act of trust in me. Allow me the secret of our agreement; I assure you, I ask no more of you than what I will declare in our Vow.” And was it Harry’s imagination, or was there a slight emphasis on ‘you’?

Draco stared piercingly at Dumbledore. Harry felt a hint of pride that his friend didn’t agree wholeheartedly, at the drop of a hat, at the mere possibility of proffered protection. _Well, he is a Slytherin. And a pureblood from an ancient house at that. What more could one expect?_

“Alright. I’ll accept that.” _For now,_ went unspoken. “What do you propose?”

“There are a number of Vows that can bond two wizards over specified measures.” Dumbledore folded his arms into the sleeves of his robe, a motion that would have been far more impressive, in Harry’s eyes, had there not been dancing golden stars bouncing joyously around each cuff. “I proposition a Singular Vow of Mutualism – an exchange of one criteria that will be maintained up to the point of straying from such criteria.”

“What happens if it is broken?” There was wariness in Draco’s tone.

“Your fears are unfounded, my dear boy.” Harry felt Draco’s hand flinch at the term of endearment. “Nothing quite so drastic as the death of the one who breaks such a Vow.”

“Potential paralysis and an induced comatose state is drastic enough in itself,” Lucius sneered, distaste breaking through his expressionless mask for the first time that day.

“Easy reversible, and only temporary at worst,” Dumbledore reassured Draco without even glancing at Lucius, smiling as Draco paled. “Yet I can assure you that it is enough incentive for me to maintain my Vow. Is it for you?” Draco nodded rapidly, lips pressing together. “Excellent. Then all we need is a Conduit, and the Vow can be made.”

“Conduit?”

“A third party representative to act as a stabilizer for the Vow. Their magic provides the highway for the exchange.” Dumbledore strode purposefully towards the modest fireplace crackling merrily in the corner of the room. Harry had barely noticed it upon arrival. “It so happens I have someone in mind to offer their assistance. Give me a moment to request his presence.”

“You would bring a stranger into our midst to witness such a significant exchange?” It was Lucius that spoke, but Narcissa’s thinned lips indicated she felt much the same way.

“Not a stranger, no, but a loyal comrade.”

“Wait! No, I don’t want anyone else to witness it!” Draco stood up in his chair, hand slipping from Harry’s in his haste. Harry eased himself to his feet beside him. “Why can my mother or father act as Conduit?”

Dumbledore turned from the fireplace, half-bowed already towards the flickering flames. “Your parents could hardly be deemed objective to be able to participate in such a role, Draco, especially given their blood relation. The highway of exchange requires objectivity with regard to the matter at hand. A judge, if you will.”

“But –“

“Fear not, if you object overly to the individual I have in mind, I will reconsider.”

The headmaster’s words didn’t seem to mollify Draco in the slightest. His face paled, eyes widening slightly and he took a step towards the old man. It was almost aggressive, and for a moment Harry worried that he would actually launch an attack.

“Professor Dumbledore? Perhaps I could do it?”

At least his words served to stall Draco’s offensive response. The blonde boy turned towards Harry, blank faced surprise replacing panic. Harry gave him a small, reassuring smile before looking over his shoulder to Dumbledore. He wasn’t sure if the wizard would agree; after all, Harry himself wasn’t exactly objective when it came to Draco, but…

Dumbledore had straightened at the suggestion. He didn’t speak immediately, and Harry worried that he would reject the proposal outright. But then his eyes narrowed slightly, drifting sideways in consideration.

“Perhaps…” Pale blue eyes turned on Draco, who flinched slightly at being the focus of attention once more. “Would you deem Harry an acceptable participant in this Vow?”

Draco cast a glance towards Harry. His face still bespoke nervousness, but Harry was heartened to see that it had reduced slightly. His friend nodded slowly, then with more confidence. “Yes, yes I… if that is alright with you?” The question was directed to Harry, not Dumbledore, and Harry felt the kindling warmth blossom in his chest. He nodded in reply; his own twist of nervousness, coiling like a fearful snake in his gut, could be easily quashed beneath the expression Draco gave him.

“He is not yet of age. He cannot act as a Conduit.” Narcissa’s voice was right beside Harry’s shoulder. A glance behind his showed that both Draco’s parents had slipped silently from their chairs and stepped up behind them. Straight backs, raised chins, it was almost like they physically supported the pair.

“That is an irrelevant fact, Mrs. Malfoy.”

“How so?”

“He need not be of age, simply have adequate control of his magic to act as a link between participants.” Dumbledore stepped towards them, robes rustling on the floor and a lecturing cast to his tone. Harry thought Narcissa impressive to withhold the scowl she so obviously felt rise to the fore at the condescension. She didn’t succumb, but her lips pressed more firmly together in her silence.

Dumbledore, apparently satisfied with the turn of events, shifted his attention to Harry and Draco. “Alright. Shall we begin?”

The gaze Dumbledore affixed Harry with was one filled with trust and confidence, the same expression he had turned upon him several times before and Harry hadn’t been able to fathom the meaning of. He hadn’t, not for a long time. Not until Draco and Narcissa had told him the tale of the Boys Who Lived at the New Year.

It was a little confronting, to bear witness to Narcissa’s soothing tone as she spoke what he suspected was a very censored version of how his parents had lost their lives, and he nearly along with them. It was a little saddening, to think that those two people who held the title of Mother and Father, that he had scarcely spared a thought for at all in years, had cared for him enough to give their lives for him. And it was a little confusing, to understand that the primary reason that Lucius had requested Harry’s assistance in their shift of allegiances, the supposed ‘trust’ that Dumbledore placed in him, was because of an incident that had happened before he could remember. One he had no contribution to, save that he was the only survivor of a brutal homicide.

At least now he knew the reason for Dumbledore’s almost fond interest in him, understood the reason for the occasional requests to visit his office to gauge ‘how he was doing’ in school. He had wondered, if only as a passing thought. It was like a puzzle piece clicking into place, and rather than feel the disgruntlement that Draco expressed over Dumbledore’s consideration of him being ‘only because he might have been the Boy Who Lived’, Harry simply felt the satisfaction of understanding. He couldn’t blame Dumbledore for his investment in him, even if it was misplaced.

And in this instance, in the act of ensuring Draco’s protection, Harry was more than happy to utilize this unfounded trust and confidence.

There wasn’t all that much to the preparation of the procedure. Placing Lyssy at his feet, Harry followed Draco and Dumbledore to the center of the room. Standing across from one another before the wide desk, each offered one another their hands and clasped fingers. Draco had paled to a sickly pallor, though Harry wasn’t sure if it was to do with the Vow or the shriveled skin of Dumbledore’s right hand pressed in his own. He didn’t hesitate to clasp their fingers, however, and the headmaster himself was a picture of serenity. Dumbledore offered a reassuring smile, speaking gently as he informed Draco of exactly the words he was to speak.

As directed, Harry placed his own hand over the linked fingers. As soon as his fingers settled, shivering slightly at the coldness of the blackened fingers, Dumbledore raised his wand in his right hand. Without ceremony, he spoke:

_‘Mutua auxilium.’_

A faint glow of pale red surrounded the three hands, as though wrapped in thin filmy cellophane. It laid a different kind of coldness onto Harry’s fingers and he fought to suppress another shiver.

“Do you, Draco Malfoy, solemnly attest to your commitment to avoiding the involvement in the exploits of the Dark Lord and his followers, to pertain to the rules of this school and to follow direction and instruction by myself and the Order of the Phoenix should it concern your safety and protection?”

Draco swallowed, but his voice didn’t waver. “I do.”

Dumbledore nodded. “So be it.” A faint ripple of deeper redness pulsed from Dumbledore’s fingers to Draco’s, disappearing at the sleeve of his robe.

Drawing a deep, quiet breath, Draco spoke. “Do you, Albus Dumbledore, solemnly attest to your commitment to ensuring my protection from the Dark Lord and his followers, to offer your support and aid in the face of threat, and to provide assistance upon request concerning such matters?”

“I do.”

“So be it.” Another ribbon of red darted between their hands, from Draco to Dumbledore this time, and the colour began to fade, dissipating like smoke.

And that was it. Simple, and Harry had hardly felt the exchange of magic save for a faint ripple through his belly at the open and close. In the moment that Draco and Dumbledore unclasped there hands, however, his magic sparked, jumping sporadically.

It could have been that he kept contact with Dumbledore for just a little longer than Draco. Or perhaps simply the breaking of the handhold had made the coldness of the elderly wizard’s finger that much more pronounced. For whatever reason, as Dumbledore withdrew his fingers, Harry gasped, eyes swiveling to train upon the withered hand and reached out toe grab at the fingers once more.

Magnetised. That was the effect. And Harry couldn’t draw his gaze away from the sickly blackness.

He was only faintly aware of what he was doing. Distantly, as though recalling a dream, he realised that his state of mind strongly resembled that which had gripped him when he first saw Draco’s Dark Mark, but he didn’t really consider it. His primary focus rested solely upon the life-draining wound that suddenly made sense to him. Unraveled. Comprehensible. Like jumbled letters that finally sorted themselves into words.

It was cold. And dark. And painful. Not sharp, fiery pain but a deep, chronic ache that disrupted sleep and gradually drew the victim into exhaustion. The longer he stared the greater the quiver of his magic grew, reaching out and running tentative fingers over the shadow. He saw deeper. Not only skin deep, not just bone deep. The drain sucked at the source of the Dumbledore’s magic.

 _It’s wrong. Sick, like a disease, or a cancer. It needs to be cut out, to removed. It’s killing him_. On the fringes of his buzzing consciousness a niggling voice mewled **_"What? Don’t touch that, it is bad, yucky, don’t touch!"_** but he ignored it. _Maybe if I could just…_

He didn’t know exactly what he did. As with Draco’s link to the darkness, he simply knew he had to expel the source. An amused voice in the back of his head likened it to a Muggle exorcism, but he ignored the skeptical remark.

He drew it out. He wrapped his magic around the festering disease, locking around the taint like pliers and dragging with a heave. He knew he didn’t move a muscle – his hands were still on the husk of blackened fingers – and he didn’t make a sound, though he was faintly aware of voices around him. They echoed slightly, and there was a frantic edge to them, but his attention was fully focused.

Another mental heave, and the darkness dislodged. To his magical sense, Harry could see the globe of blackness rise from the surface of the skin, strands of darkness trailing behind it as they extended still into the body of the headmaster. Like parasitic tentacles, they ran up his arm, above and beneath his skin, and sucked on every nodule of magic they could grasp.

_No. Let go. That is not yours, so I will. Pull. You. Out._

Another heave and it disconnected. The darkness twitched slightly, hanging suspended in Harry’s magical grasp and quivering like a feeble creature cast into harsh weather. Yet Harry felt not a twinge of sympathy. The darkness, the coldness, the greed and the pain it radiated like a sharp smell overwhelmed any inkling of compassion. With a wrenching squeeze of his magic, Harry twisted and compressed, pushing and crushing. The darkness dwindled, shrunk. It receded, and finally with a flicker of invisible silver-magic light in its wake, it disappeared.

Blinking rapidly, awareness of his surroundings fell upon him. Hands gripped his arms, shaking him slightly, and a frantic “Harry, hey, Harry, can you hear me?” became discernible from the warped echoes of sound. Glancing upwards, Harry met Draco’s eyes and watched in confusion as the fear and worry slid from his friend’s face into relief.

“Thank Merlin,” Draco gasped, releasing his grasp for long enough to wipe a hand across his forehead. “Are you trying to give me a heart attack?”

Harry shook his head, baffled. His mind felt slow, waded and clogged with cotton balls. _No, why would I want to give you a heart attack?_ It took a delayed moment for him to realise that Draco was exaggerating.

“Harry, dear, are you alright?” Narcissa, her voice soothing, slid into his field of vision. “What happened? How did you…?”

Following the darting motion of Narcissa’s eyes, Harry glanced over Draco’s shoulder to the headmaster. Dumbledore was immobile, staring intently at something in his hands. No, not in his hands, Harry realised. His hand. The right hand to be precise, a hand that until moments ago had been a crippled, blackened husk of curled fingers.

Now, it looked… renewed. Rejuvinated. If he was to hazard a guess, Harry would even speculate that the right hand looked less wrinkled than the left that cradled it.

“My dear boy, how did you do this?”

Meeting the headmaster’s intent gaze, Harry shrugged minutely. He didn’t like the way the man looked at him, slightly harshly and a little frustrated, as though he were a puzzle that he couldn’t quite work out. “I just… pulled it out.”

“Pulled it out? All of it?”

Harry nodded.

Dumbledore dropped his gaze once more and Harry felt the tension seep from his shoulders slightly. “How remarkable… Is this the same as what you conducted on Draco?”

Harry paused, considering for a moment before nodding once more.

“Remarkable…”

In that moment, Harry’s knees decided to forfeit their strength and he slumped slightly. He recognised the response; he had only just managed to make it back to Featherwood’s rooms after the incident with Draco before his legs collapsed.

Thankfully, this time, Draco offered a hand of support. Slipping his arm around Harry’s shoulders, the blonde turned towards the headmaster. “He’s unwell, I think. The hospital wing…?”

Blue eyes rose from their study of clasped hands, twinkling behind their half-moon spectacles. “No, not unwell. Simply spent, I would assume. Harry?” The hard intensity had fled from the man’s eyes, leaving nothing but faint concern in its wake.

Hary nodded again. He didn’t feel sick, just very, very tired.

“And likely magically spent as well.” Dumbledore gestured towards the door with his healed hand; had it been anyone else, it may have looked like he was reveling in the use. “Perhaps you would see to accompanying him to the Great Hall, Draco? Breakfast is still in session, I believe, and a meal will not go astray. Chocolate, specifically, but anything sugary will do.”

Draco nodded. “Of course, sir.” And without further comment turned and nearly carried Harry to the door. Harry murmured a protest at his fussing but Draco merely shushed him, propped the heavy wooden door open with a foot, and led him down the stone steps.

As the door swung closed behind them, Harry turned back at the last moment. Dumbledore, Narcissa and Lucius had moved closer to one another, so close that they could have spoken without being heard from the door. Dumbledore barely spared a glance for their departure. Harry shivered slightly as he noted the return of the hardness to the man’s pale eyes, turned instead upon the two Malfoys.

It did not bode well for an amicable discussion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Wow, so many comments last chapter. Thank you so much to everyone who commented/offered me their kudos. I love you all!!! And thank you everyone for your continued reading. It was a bit of a nitty-gritty chapter, but it gets a little lighter in the next few.  
> As an aside, I'm sorry if I demonised Dumbledore a little. I didn't really intend to, but I'm trying to portray him in a different light; he's not 'mean' or 'heartless', but the kindness he gives to the canon characters is mostly due to his longstanding relationship with them. He doesn't know nor trust the Malfoys (I mean, would you initially? Really?) so he's just not being as forgiving.  
> Not like he's evil...


	17. The Changed and the Unchanging

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: A little bit of canon divergence in regards to Voldemort's orders for Draco. Sorry if this offends anyone.

The moment Draco walked through the door in the Great Hall, Severus was on his feet and marching through the staff passage to the headmasters office. Dumbledore had mentioned the Malfoy’s meeting, and though he hadn’t expected an invitation, he could at least hope to catch the tail end of the discussion of Lucius and Narcissa were still in the old man’s clutches.

He was, after all, involved. Even if his relationship with the Malfoys had taken a turn for the worst since the Dark Lord’s return, Narcissa had still requested his assistance. That had to could for something.

Muttering the password to the condescending griffin statue, Severus ascended the stairs two at a time and entered the room barely a moment after knocking. Dumbledore didn’t seem surprised at his appearance, barely sparing him a glance. The Malfoys each turned at the interruption, however, and Severus could have sworn both pairs of eyes could have frozen fire for their chill.

“Ah, Severus, how kind of you to join us.”

“I didn’t realise he had been invited.” Narcissa’s cool tone was clipped, unfriendly, and bordering on aggressive.

Dumbledore smiled faintly. “Not specifically, no, but I believe his presence would be advantageous for the ensuring conversation.” With a gesture of his hand, the headmaster directed Severus to one of the rickety wooden seats lined before his desk. Severus inclined his head and stepped forward, but transfigured the chair into a far more suitable oaken-backed ladder style, far sturdier than the alternatively dubious option. He thought he saw Lucius’ jaw tighten from the corner of his eye but didn’t turn to confirm his suspicions.

“Tea, Severus?” The elderly wizard raised a cup in one hand, saucer in the other and gestured questioningly.

Refraining from rolling his eyes, Severus shook his head. _Ever the pleasantries. He always delays that which is important with idle chatter._ He lowered his eyelids, fixing a stare on the headmaster as he shrugged, raised the cup in his hand and –

_His hand!_

Severus was unable to keep his eyes from widening, even aware as he was of his audience. “Your…”

Dumbledore flickered his eyes towards him, raising one bushy white brow in query. “Yes, Severus?”

From the twinkle in the man’s eye, Severus knew he was entirely aware of the focus of Severus’ attention. Yet he was too stunned to be irritated by it. “Your hand…”

“Yes, quite remarkable, is it not?” Twisting the white hand, wriggling wrinkled digits, the headmaster admired his appendage as though it were a piece of art. “Just the topic of conversation, in fact.”

“How...?” It should not have been possible.

“Harry Potter. He seems to have developed a knack for ridding dark taints from hapless victims.”

Severus narrowed his eyes. Potter? The quite, strange boy – well, quite most of the time – who seemed so erratic in his magical ability that he was almost a danger to work around? _He_ removed the curse? “Explain, if you would.”

There was an almost imperceptible sound of protest from the Malfoy’s – Severus wasn’t sure which – but Dumbledore spared them an unreadable glance that quelled any further protest. Settling his teacup precisely in the ring of the saucer, he spoke. “During the ceremony of the Single Vow of Mutualism between myself and Draco Malfoy, Harry acted as our Conduit. I believe that the physical contact may have triggered a natural repellant response from his own magic, and, perhaps against his will and better judgment, he proceeded to extricate and exterminate the taint that has infected my left arm for more than half a year.” The old man paused, raising the teacup to his lips once more as though he had simply commenting on any changes to the curriculum for the coming new year.

Severus’ mouth threatened to pop open. Too many facts were crying for attention from the brief explanation and he had to blink rapidly to restore a semblance of order to his muddled thoughts. _A Single Vow of Mutualism? Natural repulsion? He exterminated it? The effects of such a powerful dark object…_

He wasn’t the only one left speechless from the explanation – though perhaps for different reasons – but the Malfoy’s recovered faster than he. Narcissa hissed between her teeth in a way Severus was familiar with and very happy to not be the focus of. “You speak of such things to him?”

Dumbledore nodded, eyes on his tea and a small smile quirking his lips. “Of course. I have utmost faith in him.”

Severus suspected Lucius would be hissing now too if his rigidity and composure permitted as much. His words were clipped and icily cold. “He is a Death Eater. You have sentenced our son to his death.”

Turning his head slowly, Severus raised a thin eyebrow at the blonde man. He was met with a gaze so chilling that had he not been subject to the dissatisfaction of greater men he would have shriveled in fear. “My being a Death Eater ensures that? Not simply the involvement of your son within such circles.”

“Do not play the fool with me, Severus. You are aware of the circumstances. More than aware, given your own vows committed for Draco’s sake. And anything ignorance you may have had the headmaster has ensure is now remedied.” Lucius’ frozen gaze shifted to Dumbledore, who only blew softly on his tea in response.

“That is hardly a concern, Lucius.” Severus clicked his tongue in exasperation. “Surely you would have realised the reality of the situation by now?’

Twin pairs of Malfoy eyes turned upon his once more. Yes, if he had been a weaker man… It was like being trapped in the eyes of weaving snakes. Narcissa raised a perfect eyebrow. “Oh? Pray tell, what situation would that be?”

“Please, allow me, Mrs. Malfoy.” Settling his cup once more, Dumbledore folded his hands before him. “Unless you have any objections, Severus?”

“Would you consider them had I any?”

Dumbledore only smiled benignly in response, shifting his attention back to the Malfoys. “Severus has been my double agent for nigh on fifteen years. He has infiltrated Voldemort’s ranks and kept me informed of developments, even embedding certain catalysts into Death Eater midst to ensure that the plans of those of the Light can be conducted to their optimal efficiency.”

“A double agent.” Lucius face indicated the term held the same flavour as a rotten lemon. “You expect us to believe such, that Severus,” he pointed the base of his cane abruptly towards Severus redundantly , who resolutely ignored the jab, “has been double-crossing the Dark Lord since his first vanquishing?” The blonde man’s eyes turned towards Severus, narrowing coldly. “You expect us to believe such a story?”

“I expect you to believe the truth.” Dumbledore locked eyes with Severus, who nodded in allowance of the request. “Severus was the one who informed me of the task your son was granted at the beginning of the school year. He has kept me informed of developments on the subject.”

Narcissa’s gasp was almost a choke, her face visibly paled. “Severus… you betrayed my son? But, the Unbreakable Vow –“

“Never specified my silence on the matter, Narcissa.”

“You betrayed him…”

Scowling, Severus fixed the woman with a pointed stare. He had always been fond of Narcissa, of her strength, but she was blind when it came to her son. “I betrayed nothing. Do you truly believe I would jeopardise Draco’s safety?”

“For your own life? To protect your own skin? I have my suspicions.” The woman sounded venomous, shaking her head not in dissent but self-reprimand. “I should never have trusted you.”

That, if nothing else, caused Severus to struggle to contain a flinch.

Dumbledore apparently decided that Severus had been left to the wolves for long enough. “Mrs. Malfoy, I understand your concern. It has been a trying day for you, to be sure, and you are likely wearied by travel. However, know that Severus had your son’s safety as a priority. Every instance he informed me of developments in Voldemort’s plans, Draco arose as a topic of consideration.”

Severus cringed at that. _He’s making me sound like a guardian angel_. Still, it seemed to calm Narcissa some. A hint of colour returned to her cheeks and she glanced warily at Severus; not gratefully or fondly, but at least without aggression. “Narcissa, I wish to help your son. He does not deserve the situation he is in now.”

“Indeed he does not,” Dumbledore agreed, leaning forward slightly in his seat. “No child should be drawn unnecessarily into the war, to have responsibilities greater than their age thrust upon them. It is a game for the mad and the desperate.” Severus wondered idly if the headmaster considered a certain Gryffindor boy when he made such a claim. “Which leads me to another matter, a matter that was overlooked prior, to spare your son further distress.”

Frowning Severus glanced between the elderly man and the Malfoys. He was uncertain of the segue, but suspected he should keep his lips sealed regardless. He was not disappointed.

Narcissa sighed heavily. “You preach of the altruism of your protection, headmaster, yet the payment you request is… substantial.”

“I am striving to win a war, Mrs. Malfoy. I will use every weapon at my disposal.”

Narcissa nodded, but her downcast eyes still held resentment. “You suspected the change in his orders?”

Severus’ frown deepened. “Change? What change?”

Rather than Narcissa, Dumbledore replied. “Voldemort has dubbed Draco the hand that is to murder me.”

Silence met the old man’s words. It was not entirely unexpected; Severus had assumed the order would be given sooner or later, directly assigned. But to Draco… To their credit, Narcissa and Lucius looked pained at the prospect, though Severus suspected it was due more to fear for their son than for any overt impact Dumbledore’s death would have on the Wizarding world. Severus nearly snorted at the shortsightedness that had them considering themselves exempt of the fallout of such an explosive collapse.

“That is what pushed you to seek protection? He would fail, if he attempted.”

Lucius nodded. “Of course he would. We love our son, but we are realistic.”

“And you offered… what? To turn spy?”

All eyes turned towards the headmaster, watching the exchange with sharp eyes. Severus raised an eyebrow slightly in question.

Nodding slowly, the Dumbledore dropped a hand to his beard. Severus felt his eyes captured by the steady stroking of white-grey curls. “I find spy a harsh word.” Severus snorted quietly, but was ignored by his fellows completely. “However, in this instance, it will do. Yes, I would request you act as eyes and ears in the Death Eater ranks. And, as Severus has done so in the past, to assist in our efforts where possible.”

Lucius scowled. “You included none of this in the Vow.”

“Of course not. I wished to spare your son.” The reference to Draco caused both Malfoy’s to drop their heads and Severus realised that, even free of magical bindings, they would both do as requested for the sake of their son. _Such is the power of love… the power of family._ Whether unconsciously – unlikely – or deliberately, Dumbledore was urging them into their role as moles.

Slowly, then with more force, they nodded acceptance. Narcissa seemed to have lost her voice for once, leaving Lucius to reply. “Do you have any specific orders you wish to be translated presently?”

Dumbledore shook his head. “No, I believe that ensuring the stability of your position will be trying enough. Voldemort does not suspect the difficulties Draco is suffering with the Vanishing Cabinet. At what point does he demand completion?”

“Before the end of the school year. At least a month in advance.” Severus ignored the pained glances Narcissa and Lucius turned towards him.

Inclining his head, eyes fastening on the tabletop, Dumbledore stared fixedly. “Then we have less than six months before your definite endangerment.” His head nodded slightly to himself. “Yes… we can work with this. There is time.”

“And after such time?”

Dumbledore flickered his eyes to Lucius. “If you prove yourselves trustworthy, I will be more than willing to offering protection towards you, much as I have offered to Draco.”

“At a price,” Narcissa murmured.

“There is always a price, Mrs. Malfoy. A price of equal value to that which is offered.”

Severus heard Narcissa swallow beside him in the ensuing hush. Lucius was nodding slightly, as though attempting to come to terms with his fate. Dumbledore flickered his gaze between the two Malfoys, emotionless, as though studying unfamiliar tools and assessing their possible function.

Finally, unwilling to await the continuation of conversation, Severus broke the silence. “You formed a Vow of Mutualism with Draco?” If there was a slight reprimand in his tone, well, it couldn’t be helped. Distant though he maintained their relationship, Severus did… care for the boy.

“Yes. It was necessary.”

“And the price?”

‘Simply that he renounce attempts to pursue further Death Eater activity.’

Severus nodded, accepting. “You used Potter as a Conduit?”

“He was the only one available at hand.”

“You could have requested my presence.”

Dumbledore smiled. “I was in the process of doing as much, but Draco’s distress on the possible introduction of a stranger into the ceremony drove Harry to offer himself as an alternative.”

“A stranger? You could have told him it would have be me.”

“Do you think he would have accepted, even had he known?”

Severus clicked his tongue once more. No, most likely Draco would not have. The boy was stubborn, a trait he seemed to have inherited in equal parts from his mother and father. “Potter was objective enough to act as a Conduit?”

The old man’s smile widened. “Perhaps not particularly objective, but his magic is innately light. His following actions,” Dumbledore raised his right hand, illustrating his words, “proves this. As such, there was nary a hiccup in the process.”

“Innately light?” Narcissa spoke up for the first time from her self-imposed silence. “Did you suspect the nature of his magic prior to agreement, or was it purely coincidental?”

“Harry is one of the Boys Who Lived, a child who escaped one of the darkest homicides of Wizarding history. Though not a recipient of a Killing Curse, his survival through the curse that was cast upon him in itself credits a significant magical allegiance if ever there were one. The boy must have incredible strength, both of magical and personal character, to be able to eliminate such a profound taint. And not just once.” Satisfaction, almost smugness, settled on the old man’s face. Severus pinched his lips in irritation. The headmaster was wise, to be sure, and powerful, but his condescension and lack of emotional investment at times was incredibly vexing.

“Strength? Oh yes, I can assure you he has that.”

Severus turned slowly to Narcissa, puzzlement threatening to further wrinkle his brow. She sounded almost as angry as she had when defending Draco. It sounded almost as though she… cared for Potter? Did she even _know_ the boy?

Dumbledore was similarly regarding the witch with question. “You are obviously distressed over some matter?”

“Distressed? No, not as such.” Her tone bespoke otherwise.

“Then tell me, what troubles you?”

Not for the first time that day, Severus was relieved that Narcissa had trained her focus upon the headmaster. He was not sure even he could weather the force of her cold glare. “How much do you know of Harry’s family, headmaster?”

Hand clasping on Narcissa’s elbow, Lucius leant into his wife’s side and whispered inaudibly in her ear. His wife did not even turn to him, simply tugged her arm from his grasp and hardened her stare further.

Frowning curiously, Dumbledore turned towards Severus. “Harry was raised initially with his aunt and uncle, before deciding to live with his second cousin in Paris at the age of eleven. It was this reason that he chose not to attend Hogwarts.”

“And this family. They treated him well?”

Again Albus fixed Severus with a stare. ‘Perhaps you would share your knowledge Severus?’

Tipping his chin, Severus opened his mouth to speak. He directed the words at the headmaster, however; he didn’t think he would be able to retain his dignity if he met Narcissa’s gaze. “From what I can understand, his aunt and uncle feel… little love for him. They chose to offer only the bare minimum regarding his time in their care – a time, they assured me repeatedly, was more than five years ago. They have not seen the boy since.” He couldn’t keep the ring of anger from his tone. Little love? Not even. Severus had been left with the impression that they purely disliked the boy, that they considered him unruly and difficult to handle. An exaggeration, Severus was sure; he couldn’t image anyone ever genuinely referencing the quiet boy as ‘unruly’. He thanked whatever god was looking out for him that ensured Petunia did not recognise him upon opening that door in Privet Drive. He didn’t think he could have conversed civilly with Lily’s sister had she been aware of his connection to her, especially on top of their distaste for the Potter boy.

It was a blessing, Severus was sure, that the boy had left their care years ago. Perhaps the disagreeable home environment of his early childhood had contributed to the boy’s… outburst.

“They assured me, however, that Potter was in the care of his favoured Uncle Stephen Defaux. That he had requested a change in guardianship himself for a chance to ‘experience a knew culture’,’ Severus couldn’t quite keep his eyes from rolling, ‘and they had obliged his request. When I visited Defaux, I found him rather distressed over the absence of his ward, but otherwise showed a marked affection for the boy.” Severus had been, if possible, more distasteful of Defaux. Something about the man had repulsed him slightly, and he didn’t like the almost longing ring in his voice whenever he spoke of Potter. He seemed somewhat besotted with the boy, but then… Severus had never been the recipient of any kind of overt familial love, not even from his mother. Perhaps such was normal, even if it did leave a distasteful flavor on his tongue.

It was a shame Severus couldn’t use Legilimancy, even for curiosity’s sake. He suspected there was a deeper relationship beneath the surface – Defaux was a little too eager in his questioning, even for a doting relative – and yet, again, what did Severus know? It was not as though a solid relationship with his guardian was a bad thing. He’d informed Dumbledore of his suspicions, and they had pursued Potter’s medical history to broaden their search for the trigger in his past but had eventually come up against a wall. The subject had been dropped, because, well… Potter appeared to be better. Much better, even.

“A marked affection?” Those three, hard words drew Severus’ attention once more.

The fire still flickered in the fireplace. Severus was surprised by that fact. Narcissa’s voice should have rained snow from the ceiling for its coldness. He turned his head slowly towards the woman, nearly slumping in relief when he realised he had fixed her attention upon Dumbledore.

For his part, Dumbeldore maintained his composure as though he were not staring down a raging blizzard that lay restrained by only a failing protective charm. “What concerns you, Mrs. Malfoy? I confess, I would not –“

“Your affection, headmaster, is nothing so much as the twisted perversions of a monster.” It should have been impossible, for Narcissa’s voice to embody both intensely raging heat and the blinding force of an blizzard, but she managed it. “That boy, with his ‘strength’ that you so praise, has suffered through more than any child should be subjected to. Alone. And you admire that strength for its contribution to your cause?”

Face darkening with every word, Dumbledore leant forward in his seat. “What do you know?”

“Know? I know enough. Even had I not been forced to perform emergency Legilimens on him when Draco found him but a few days after school, his physical state would have been enough to inform me of that which he had suffered.”

“You found him? Where? How?”

Hissing beneath her breath, Narcissa shifted her gaze to the floor Her jaw was clenched so tightly it left a bulge in her cheek. With a start, Severus realised that this was the most distressed he had ever seen the woman in public. _Maybe she truly does care for the boy…_ It wouldn’t be an impossibility. Beneath her hard exterior, Narcissa was certainly a caring enough person.

“Such information is inconsequential. What should concern you, headmaster, is how a ward beneath the blanket of your care was subjected to such rigorous and chronic abuse without your knowledge and directly beneath your supervision.” Her eyes flickered upwards, spearing the headmaster who, incredibly, didn’t flinch. “Do you deny your ignorance in this regard?”

Feeling blue eyes flicker towards him, Severus met Dumbledore’s gaze. His gut churned as he realised just exactly the extent of what they had missed. With startling speed, he felt a wave of nausea flood through him, a throbbing springing to his temples. He was glad that Dumbledore chose to break the silence; Severus’ tongue was so dry it clung to the roof of his mouth. “We suspected the occurrence of an… incident. Certain events that have occurred since Harry’s attendance at this school have indicated as much. Severus’ visit to his various residencies was an attempt to discern as much, but…” His voice was hollow, as dark as Narcissa’s was chilling.

“What do you propose to do about it?” Lucius spoke when his wife seemed suddenly incapable.

Drawing a deep breath, Dumbledore stared directly at Narcissa. Though Lucius had asked the question, it was clearly the witch who continued to hold his attention. “Whatever support can be provided will be. I will arrange a meeting with Defaux –‘

“That won’t be unnecessary.”

Dumbledore raised an eyebrow, eyes flickering finally to Lucius. ‘Is he…?’

“Defaux is no longer within the capacity to answer such questions. He is currently ailing, suffering from the posttraumatic stress inflicted from an awakened repressed memory. I would consider him without the capacity to answer such questions in the near – or distant – future.”

A shiver trickled down Severus’ spine at Lucius’ words. The truth was so blatant he wondered at the need to disguise it with falsehood at all. Severus was not unfamiliar with acts of violence – far from it, really – but the shadowed image Lucius carefully painted only succeeded to further incapacitate his voice. Dumbledore evidently felt similarly for his eyes tightened, mouth thinning in response. Surprisingly, however, he did not question the situation further.

“Then, in that case, I will see to determining if Harry would agree to seeing a counselor, or Mind Healer. His future accommodation will be considered –“

“We will take him. He is nearly of age, but until then, he will remain in our care.”

Severus nearly fell from his seat at Lucius’ suggestion. He turned wide eyes at the figure reputed to be one of the hardest and most ruthless purebloods in the Wizarding world. What had happened to that man?

Dumbledore hesitated, but eventually nodded slowly. “I will discuss with Harry towards the end of the year. I believe that his opinion in this matter should be of greatest concern.”

“Perhaps in this instance, face value should not be taken so lightly.” Though not as chilling as his wife’s, Lucius’ words definitely held a sting.

“Of course. I would wish for nothing more. The welfare of my students is one of my primary responsibilities.”

Abruptly, Narcissa rose to her feet. Severus was unsurprised; even as a third part observer, he felt the flicker of anger at the headmaster’s words. Narcissa stared flatly at Dumbledore for a moment, nostrils flaring just slightly, before she turned on her heel and swept towards the exit. She swung the door open with a silent sweep of her wand and disappeared before Lucius had even risen to his feet.

Ever one to follow procedure, even in the most uncomfortable of situations, Lucius bowed his head towards the Dumbledore. “I apologise both for myself and on behalf of my wife for our abrupt departure, but I feel that distress dictates the need for a hasty retreat.” He paused, half turning towards the door. “Narcissa’s emotional investment has been known to get the better of her on more than one instance.”

“Not without warrant, I believe.”

Lucius looked mildly surprised at Dumbledore’s weary words, but masked it behind another bow. “Your understanding is appreciated. My thanks.” Chin rising, he turned on his heel and strode towards the door.

“Do you seek accommodation, Mr. Malfoy? Would you prefer to remain in the castle? We have adequate rooms for temporary stays if you should so desire.”

Lucius, spared a glance over his shoulder at the suggestion, but shook his head with barely a pause. “I appreciate your offer, headmaster, but we have already sought accommodation in Hogsmeade. We shall visit tomorrow before our departure, unless you object?”

Dumbledore shook his head and Lucius offered a slight nod of thanks. Following in the footsteps of his wife, he disappeared through the open door with a silent sweep, cane tapping inaudibly on the carpet.

The door closed with a sharp snap. The echo of heavy wood and clicking latch hung in the room at the departure of the Malfoys. It was a long time before the stillness was broken.

“I believe, Severus, that we have made a dire error of judgment. In more instances than one.”

“I would concur with your assumption,” Severus agreed. His voice was barely a whisper, struggling against a croak. He wasn’t even sure if he referred to Harry Potter or Narcissa Malfoy.

* * *

The hall was not even half full, but Harry doubted Draco would have noticed any of the surrounding students had it been jam-packed. As soon as Draco pushed Harry onto the pew at the Slytherin table, the blonde seemed to deflate. Not anything as obvious as a slump or a heavy sigh, but as Harry observed him with a sideways glance he couldn’t overlook his friend’s paleness, the tightness around his eyes, the slight ruffle to his usually pristine hair.

Draco settled himself into the seat beside him and before Harry could even consider loading up his own plate had filled a bowl with fruit slices, at least two slices of bread with butter and jam and something that was probably sugar cubes for tea, but seemed out of place with the lack of mugs and kettles on the stretch of the half-full table. Harry blinked down at the bowl in surprise as it was slid before him, opening his mouth to speak before clamping it shut again. Draco made no move to serve himself, but instead folded his arms before him on the table and stared intently at a jug of pumpkin juice. Harry doubted he even saw the jug.

“Draco?” Grey eyes turned towards him. “Are you… do you feel alright? After…”

Frowning slightly, his friend blinked. A moment later, he snorted in a sound that was purely Draco. “You’re asking me that?”

“Um… yes?”

Shaking his head, Draco reached leant into Harry, pressing against him shoulder to shoulder. “Dumbledore said it was you we were supposed to be worried about.”

“I’m not the one that just made a life changing Vow.” It was a testament to how shaken Draco was that he didn’t even bat an eyelid at the mention of the Vow in such a public place. Or maybe he was just confident that Harry had spoken quietly enough not to be overheard.

“I’m fine. Fine. Things will be different from now on, but I’m fine.”

“Fine with what?”

At the sound of the intruding voice, both Harry turned and glanced behind him. Blaise, grinning widely with his immaculately white teeth, switched gazes between Draco and himself questioningly. Pansy, at his shoulder, similarly stared with a penetrating curiosity.

“None of your business,” Draco grumbled, turning away from them to the table once more. Grabbing a glass of juice and primly filling it with pumpkin juice, he sipped with careful deliberation, as though it were the most important thing in the world.

“Draco, secrets breed discord,” Pansy tutted with a sniff, prodding him in the back with a finger. She didn’t seem particularly invested in pursuing her curiosity, however, for she turned to Harry a moment later and smiled. “Hello, Harry. Did you enjoy a pleasant Christmas break?”

Drawing his eyes away from Draco’s fixed drinking, Harry offered her a small smile in return. “Very much, Pansy. And you?”

“Absolutely boring. Especially when one of my best friends disappears to a foreign country.” She glared coldly at Draco, who only spared her half a glance before turning his attention to the juice. Pansy huffed indignantly, but seemed to brush it off with relative ease. Following Blaise, she settled herself onto the bench beside Harry. “Oh, but I have to thank you for my gift. It’s beautiful.”

Her words were genuine, that much Harry could tell. He felt a flush rise in his cheeks and, cursing his blasted inability to hide such responses, tucked his chin and fiddled awkwardly with his glasses. It didn’t help when he saw the surprise flicker across Pansy’s face, as though she had seen something unexpected, and exchange a subtle glance with Blaise.

Blaise spoke up in Pansy’s silence. “Are you alright, Harry? You look a little unwell.”

Another small smile, and Harry waved his had to brush off the concern. “Fine. Just a bit tired.” He glanced towards Draco, who had turned towards him at Blaise’s query. “Draco and I took an international portkey this morning and I’m not familiar so much with that mode of transport, so…”

“You and Draco were together?” Pansy’s voice carried an odd resonance. It sounded almost… hungry? “Draco, did you take yourself to Paris for Christmas?”

“Yes. And what of it?”

“Why, whatever brought you to Paris?”

Growling lowly beneath his breath, Draco stared at Pansy with hooded eyes flashing. “I’m sure I do not know what you’re insinuating, Pansy.”

“Oh, I think you know –“

“International portkey travel does take a bit of a toll when you’re not used to it.” Bless him, Blaise spoke loudly over Pansy’s words, his voice light-hearted as he helped himself to a slice of jam-smeared toast. “You’re looking a little under the weather too, Draco.”

“I’m fine, Blaise, though your concern is touching.” The sarcasm rung strongly in his tone; not even Blaise would be been able to miss it.

Blaise shrugged, biting into a corner of his toast. “There’s nothing wrong with keeping an eye out for a friend. You should have some chocolate, though.”

 _What is it with wizards and chocolate? Is it their cure-all or something?_ It was not the first time Harry had been recommended to partake of such for curative purposes, and not just from earlier that day. He wondered idly if chocolate contained some sort of magical properties he was unaware of.

Sighing, Draco offered his friend a condescending roll of his eyes. “Thank you for the suggestion, but in case you hadn’t noticed it is breakfast. Nutritionally sound diet and all, you know? I sincerely doubt such would be offered on the menu.”

“Oh no, you just need to know how to know how to ask.” Drawing his wand, Blaise cast a privacy bubble around them. Draco frowned, confused, while Harry glanced towards his friend curiously. “This, my friend, will make your day. And likely your every meal time hence.”

Rapping his knuckles on the tabletop in a dancing rhythm, Blaise cleared his throat. “Special order: a bowl of your finest chocolate. Amedei, if you please.”

“Blaise, don’t be ridiculous, you can’t possibly –“

Pansy’s condescending words were effectively silenced by the ring of crockery as a bowl appeared on the table. The girl blinked rapidly, mouth opening and watched with incredulously raised eyebrows as Blaise slid the bowl towards Harry and Draco with a self-satisfied smirk.

Switching his gaze back and forth between Blaise and the bowl, face the image of bemusement, Draco picked up a square of chocolate. “Where did this little discovery come from?”

“What, the menu request?” Blaise leaned with an exaggerated slouch onto the table, crossing his arms. His smirk widened. “That, my friend, is for me to know and you to find out.” He reached across the table and snagged a square for himself, sighing appreciatively as he snapped off a piece between his teeth.

“Who’d you learn that from? How come I didn’t know you could actually request what you wanted to eat?” Harry suspected Pansy’s hands would have been on her hips and her foot tapping indignantly had she been standing.

“It’s not a widely known fact. I don’t think the staff want to overwhelm the house elves with such a wide range of requests.”

“The house elves would probably love to be run off there feet like that.” Draco bit his own chocolate, nodding in satisfaction. He pushed the bowl towards Harry, who hesitantly helped himself.

“Yes, well, either way, only sixth years and above are allowed, so it’s not like I’ve been able to use such a gift before we started the year anyway.”

“Wait, so you’ve known since the beginning of sixth year.” Blaise grinned in the face of Pansy’s rising indignation. “I asked you, I asked you where you kept getting waffles from for breakfast, but you just kept saying I was missing them!”

Blaise shrugged, uncaring of the glare Pansy sent him. Harry was unsurprised; he knew from past experience that, while Pansy was not averse to giving the tall Italian boy a whack, she would not do so in such a public place.

Sudden warmth on his lap had Harry glancing beneath the table. Lyssy had appeared out of nowhere – he felt mildly guilty that he had forgotten about her since leaving the headmaster’s office – and was curled in his lap and prodding his legs with gentle nudges of her paws. _**‘Happy? Better? Sleepy, my Harry needs to sleep.’**_

Patting her head, he sent her images of reassurance. **_‘Sorry I left you in Dumbledore’s office. Where have you been?’_**

It wasn’t really understandable as words, but the message Lyssy sent was a detailed description of her steps leading from the headmaster’s office, emphasizing every wall she had rubbed herself along and familiar scents she had noted. An image of two youths in particular stood out clearly from her mind, both seated in the Great Hall and munching on a late breakfast.

_**‘Neville and Ron are here?’** _

_**‘The Snakey One and the one that Smells Like Chicken. Yes.’**_

Harry wasn’t sure exactly where she had gotten the names from, but the flurry of images, including those of the boys in question, were enough to deduce their identity. Raising his eyes, Harry lifted himself slightly from his seat and peered over at the Gryffindor table. He could make out Ron’s bright head even at a distance. There was a faint urge to call them to attention, but his natural inclination towards muteness got the better of him and he eased himself back down in his seat again, nibbling on the corner of the chocolate square. He wasn’t sure if he could speak loudly enough to be heard across the room anyway.

“…exactly the same with that time in Herbology third year when you didn’t tell me the name for the book on Lynching Creepers. You kept it from me for two months, Blaise. Two months!”

Listening into his friends' conversation once more, Harry felt a smile tickle his lips. It appeared Pansy had shifted her discontent over Blaise’s deliberate close-lipped approach to secret keeping in general. The Slytherin boy, for his part, seemed to be reveling in being the center of Pansy’s attention, simply grinning as he worked his way through the bowl of chocolate alongside Draco.

“Yes, but I did give it to you, didn’t I?”

“Only in exchange for copying half of my Potions essay!”

Blaise shrugged again. “Nothing comes for free, Pansy. You would think less of me if I had given it to you outright.”

“I most certainly would not!”

“You know you would.”

“I wouldn’t!”

“Would you two please take your flirting elsewhere? It’s disrupting my lunch; I’m having difficulty keeping down my food.” Draco drawled with an almost bored drone, taking another sip of his pumpkin juice in a very undisrupted fashion. Harry hid a smile of amusement at the stunned expressions that painted Blaise and Pansy’s faces.

“Flirting? Us?”

“I am most certainly not flirting, Draco Malfoy!”

“You’re not fooling anyone, you know. Why don’t you just admit it already?” Another sip, and Draco shared a twinkling glance with Harry. Harry allowed his smile to show this time, more in relief than amusement. If Draco could tease his friends, then he must be feeling at least partially recovered from the morning’s ordeal. Maybe chocolate did have magical properties.

_**‘Chicken on the move.’** _

“What?” Harry was so baffled by Lyssy’s statement that he spoke aloud. Draco looked at him quizzically, eyebrow raised, but before he could say anything another voice interrupted them.

“Hey, Harry. How are you? Didn’t see you come in, mate.”

It was Ron, of course. Harry had to bite back his amusement at Lyssy’s grumblings of chicken before turning towards the Gryffindor boy standing behind him. Raising a subdued hand in greeting, he shrugged one shoulder. Neville appeared beside Ron a moment later.

“Hi Harry. Nice Christmas?”

“Yes, thank you. And you?”

Neville shrugged in reply. “Well, my Gran was on her soap box from the moment I got off the train, so I ended up spending most of it at Ron’s. Not much of a change on that front.” The two boys shared a knowing smile, nudging each other’s shoulders. “Thanks for my present, by the way. Where did you even find one?”

Harry shrugged again, but felt a spreading of warmth in his gut. _That’s the second person to say they liked my gift!_ It was childish, he knew, but that simple joy was one of the best feelings he’d ever had. Better even than the embarrassed gratitude of receiving them. “A little nursery in Paris. From _Le Rue de Marvelles.”_

“R _ue de Marvelles_? Wait, did you go to The Seeds in Splendor? Is that where you got it from?”

Harry frowned for a moment, the memory of the shop flickering before his eyes and his mind translating the words above the door. “Ye-es?”

“Ah, I’m so jealous! I’ve always wanted to go there. It’s tiny, but their range of exotics is fantastic.” There was genuine longing in Neville’s voice, something that apparently baffled Ron as the red-head proceeded to reprimand his friend on the enthusiasm of his green-thumb.

The moment Harry’s attention shifted slightly from Neville’s arrival, he became aware of the silence of the Slytherins around him. It had nothing to do with the privacy spell – in fact, it appeared that Blaise had dropped the bubble already – but rather a tense stillness and focus upon the various dishes that adorned the table as though they held the answers to the end-of-term exams. None spared a greeting, nor even a second glance, for the Gryffindors.

 _What happened?_ Harry glanced between his friends. _They’re acting strangely around one another._ The Gryffindors appeared to even be edging slightly away from Blaise and Pansy, as though they felt uneasy in their immediate vicinity. W _hat happened to that friendship before the holidays? They are friends, aren’t they?_

Glancing towards Draco, he tried to question the blonde boy with his eyes. Draco met his gaze for a moment, and the guarded expression said he knew exactly what Harry was attempting to ask. He merely shrugged tightly, fiddling half-heartedly with his empty glass.

 _That isn’t right. When did this happen?_ Did _something happen? When did I miss it?_ The prospect of the easy camaraderie between his peers, the people he had thought were his friends and friends of one another, deteriorating to a state nearly as unfriendly as it had been months before was more painful than Harry would have previously thought possible. He would never have thought that the interactions of people around him would impact him so profoundly; he had always been solitary, and it had been exhausting and more than a little intimidating attempting to become accustomed to the constant presence of others. In the early weeks of starting at Hogwarts, he had been more grateful than he could describe to have been offered Featherwood’s rooms. The brief privacy at nightfall was a much needed reprieve.

The holidays with Draco had been different. It didn’t feel so much like his friend was intruding on his carefully defined bubble of space. Harry still found it a little surprising that he had adapted so naturally to being around Draco. Not just a lot, but all the time. And yet, it was comfortable. More than comfortable, even. When had he grown to rely – no, rely wasn’t strong enough – to _enjoy_ the company of others so much?

But for whatever reason, and at whatever time, seated at the Slytherin table in the midst of straight-backed tension he felt nothing if not deep loss at the regression of the friendship that had grown between his fellow sixth years the year before. A slight burn started in his eyes, a lump lodging in his throat. _Oh god, don’t cry, please don’t cry. What is wrong with me that I’ll cry at the drop of a hat?_

A tap on his leg almost caused Harry to jump and he glanced beside him. Pansy was frowning deeply, a worried cast to her dainty face. Catching his eye, she seemed to speak a thousand questions with one look.

Harry shook his head, fiddling with the half-eaten square of chocolate in his hands. He was feeling better now – at least in terms of weariness – and no longer quite so woozy. Maybe he could leave? He glanced surreptitiously towards Draco. Would Draco come with him? All of a sudden it seemed very distressing that he wasn’t entirely sure if his friend would accompany him, would be with him as he was over the holidays. He was only half-aware of the Gryffindor’s continued conversation.

“I have my own reasons, and you should respect that, Ron. I don’t question your taste in quidditch teams.”

“That’s because you know they’re the right tastes.”

“When was the last time the Cannons actually a game, Ron?”

The red-head flushed slightly, and grumbled beneath his breath. Even in his growing discomfort, Harry had to smile at that. He couldn’t help but notice Ron never actually answered that question.

Neville caught Harry’s eye, a brief moment of confusion playing across his face before he broke into a smile. “Hey, you look chirpy. Bit pale, but still. Happy.” He grinned.

Blinking, Harry cocked his head. Happy? Did he really look happy? He felt more on the verge of melancholy than happy. He didn’t get a chance to reply though, as Draco spoke for him.

“International travel. It’s a bit discomforting.”

For the first time, Neville switched his attention to the Slytherin. “Oh, right.” He paused, cleared his throat and glanced awkwardly at Ron before turning back on Draco. “How was your break, Dra… Mal… um…?”

The stumble nearly Harry to wince. He felt the insistent tap of Pansy’s foot on his leg but ignored it, eyes dropping to his plate and hand to Lyssy’s back to stroke compulsively. It was that or tear a bloody scratch at his collarbones. _How sad. What on earth happened?_ It was all so wrong.

To his surprise, however, Draco seemed to read his distress better than Harry had given him credit for. He could feel his friends eyes upon him but didn’t meet them, keeping his chin tucked instead. He did start, however, when warm fingers slipped into his own.

“Rather pleasant, in fact, Neville. More so than I was expecting it to be.” There was even a note of satisfaction in his tone, so far removed from the anxiety that Harry had seen in him over the break – in the last hour, even – that he raised his head in surprise. Draco smiled at him brightly; so brightly it must have been at least half-forced, but there was definitely sincerity there too. “I met up with Harry in Paris and we spent most of the break together.”

And just like that, Draco broke the ice. Looking back on it later, Harry would marvel at his friend’s skill at easing the tension. He wondered with how difficult and how much intent Draco had done as much, but found he didn’t really care. For whatever reason, it seemed to ease the nervousness of the Gryffindors and Slytherin’s alike. Even the students seated a little further along the table, casting sideways glances towards the Gryffindors, seemed to take the jovial comment as a sign to be about their business.

It was almost as though Draco gave them permission to act like normal. Or at least as normal as they had been acting. For even in the brief time Harry had spent at Hogwarts, he knew that cordial relationships between Gryffindors and Slytherins were rare at best.

Neville broke into a smile that seemed more relief that amusement. “Paris? You went to Paris? You lucky sod; trust in a pureblood to have extravagant holidays.”

“It was hardly extravagant, Neville. Freezing and full of Muggles, to be more precise.”

Snorting, Neville rolled his eyes. “Only a snotty pureblood would consider ‘full of Muggles’ to be a bad thing.” There was no sting in the words, though, and Harry even thought Draco looked on the verge of smiling in response.

“I dare you to spend a full day in Muggle Paris and not be tearing your hair, Longbottom.”

“I will! Gladly! But only if you foot the bill to send me there. You’ve got a deal, in that case.”

Pansy chuckled at Harry’s side. Glancing towards her, he caught the flicker of a wink. Her eyes seemed to tell him _‘don’t worry’_ , a reassurance akin to a pat on the shoulder. Harry turned away from her honest stare. It was a little disconcerting. Was he that transparent, that even in such a brief time she had been able to read his emotions and the cause of his distress like one would an open book?

Ron had leaned across the table and snapped up a handful of chocolate with the speed of a hunting hawk. Ignoring Blaise’s squawk of distress, he stuffed the entire fistful into his mouth. The motion was so familiar and at ease that the five of them could have been different group of people entirely to those they had been moments before. “When ‘oo ge’ ba’?”

Draco raised an eyebrow at Ron in mild disgust. “I beg your pardon?”

“When did you guys get back?” Neville translated, fond exasperation rolling his eyes. Draco nodded, mollified, but kept his eyes on Ron as though fearing an assault of half-eaten chocolate projectiles.

“Just this morning. How about you?”

“Two nights ago. Dad had to go back to work, and I didn’t want to stay at home with Gran. Ron’s the same.”

Nodding, Ron adopted an expression of dread. “You don’t want to be left with nothing to do in the house when Mum’s the one in charge. She’d start early on the spring cleaning.”

“Just you two? What about Hermione?” Blaise glanced over the Gryffindor’s shoulders, neck straining as his eyes scanned for a bushy head of hair. Harry rose slightly too, adding his own eyes to the search, but dropped back down in his seat when Lyssy muttered that the ‘ ** _dusty girl’_** wasn’t here.

Ron shrugged. “She’s not back yet. Sent me an owl to tell me that she’d be back tonight, though. You know she got an owl?”

Draco nodded, a smug tilt to his chin. “Yes, I did, actually. Harry gave it to her.”

Ron raised an eyebrow. “That was you? Hermione didn’t tell me that.”

“I thought she did. Didn’t she say something about it coming from France?” Neville finally appeared to have had enough of standing and eased himself onto a bench. He gave Harry an approving smile only further eased the tension, as well as drawing a blush to Harry’s cheeks. “She was ecstatic.”

“Oh yeah. She was at that, too, wasn’t she?” Ron sighed wistfully. “Kind of makes me wish I’d thought of getting her one years ago.”

“So she’s coming back tonight? Are you sure? It’s definitely tonight?” Pansy’s voice was oddly insistent.

“That’s what she said. Why?”

“Oh please no, Pansy, not this year. I don’t think I’m up to it.” Blaise groaned, dropping his head to rest on his palm as though physically wearied.

“What? Why, what is it?” Ron glanced between the Slytherins, Pansy with her eyes sparkling in a predatory gleam and Blaise sighing long-sufferingly.

“Well, we’ll need a back-to-school party, of course.”

“Pansy,” Draco warned, a sharp note to his tone. “We’ve talked about this already. Last year was disastrous enough; I don’t fancy a repeat performance.”

“Slytherins actually have parties?” Ron appeared almost stunned at the prospect. “As in, you actually enjoy yourselves?”

All three Slytherins stared at him scathingly. Even Blaise appeared affronted at the offense to his partying skills. Pansy pursed her lips before speaking. “Of course. Slytherins are the ultimate in terms of party preparations.”

Apparently deeming it necessary to save his skin rather than go head-to-head with the Slytherin girl, Ron raised his hands before him in a gesture of placation. “Alright, alright. No need to get snooty at me. Just thought, you know, with all you stiffs –“

“Stiffs?”

“You know, you’re all about ‘image’ and ‘keeping things proper’.” He cringed and Harry got the distinct impression he was fully aware he was digging himself into his own grave. “Never mind.”

Pansy pinned him with a stare for a moment longer before turning to Blaise and Draco once more. Oddly enough, she didn’t seem particularly phased by the half-hearted criticisms. Neither did Draco and Blaise, for that matter; they all dropped their disgruntlement remarkably quickly. The last tingles of distress in Harry’s gut elicited by the initial unease finally dissolved. “Anyway, I wasn’t going to host a repeat performance of last year. Besides, it would be tiresome to do the same thing twice. No, I have something a little more intimate in mind.”

Draco snorted, the Gryffindors seemed to be unsure whether to be excited or mortified, and Blaise perked up markedly. Harry bit his lip at the Italian boy’s reaction; he shared a knowing glance with Draco, who seemed on the verge of aiming a dig at his friend. He restrained himself, however, enough to question Pansy with “what, exactly, did you have in mind?”

“What, you think I’d tell you and spoil the surprise?”

“You can’t honestly think it will remain a surprise for long, not when you’re setting it up in…” Draco paused, frowning. His eyes darted to the Gryffindors. “Who exactly are you thinking of inviting to this last-minute affair?”

Pansy shrugged, flipping her hair over her shoulder. “I was just thinking, you know, maybe our study group from last term.”

“That includes Gryffindors, Pansy. That could pose a problem.”

“Oh, not at all!” She arched an eyebrow, looking down her nose at Draco as though he were a rather foolish child. “You didn’t honestly think I would host such a party in Slytherin common room, did you?”

“Well then, where –“

“Ah, patience, my dear! All in good time.”

“What, so you’re gonna set it all up, just by yourself?” Ron appeared mildly impressed at the prospect, though not enough to distract him from reaching across the table to the bowl of chocolate Blaise now cradled in his arms. Blaise moved the bowl just out of reach without sparing him a glance.

“Of course. I will simply give you the time and place, and you’ll bring yourself.”

“Hermione too?”

A sigh, and another hair flip. “Really? You honestly think I would exclude her? What do you take me for?”

Ron shrugged, unconcerned. “A Slytherin.” Oddly enough, Pansy had no reply to that.

“Okay, so you’ll set it all up.” Draco drew the attention back to the topic at hand, fingers of the hand that wasn’t still grasped in Harry’s rubbing tiredly at his forehead.

Pansy nodded. “I should think all will be ready by dinnertime. If we meet just outside the Great Hall? At around six?”

There was a round of nods, shrugs and murmurs of agreement. An air of enthusiasm rippled them all, spearheaded by Pansy herself. Ron, taking the distraction as it was offered to him, reached across the table once more and managed to swipe another square of chocolate.

“Hey, stop eating my chocolate!”

“Actually, Blaise, I think it was supposed to be Harry’s chocolate.” Draco raised a pointed eyebrow at his friend.

“Regardless, I requested it.”

“Requested,” Ron mumbled around a mouthful of chocolate, eyes brightening. “What, from the kitchen?”

“Well, it wasn’t from Snape, that’s for sure.”

“I thought it was weird that they had sweets at breakfast. How’d you get that?”

A wide grin spread across Blaise’s face. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

The ensuing banter was light-hearted, and barely descended past half-hearted criticisms that were more pathetic and laughable than digging. Harry watched silently as his friends slipped back into the naturalness they had gradually adopted months before with a sigh of relief. Everything was alright; whatever that slight glitch was, it appeared they didn’t hate each other. Or even dislike each other, if the laughter bubbling from various mouths and echoing around the hall was any indication.

Glancing towards Draco, he met his friend’s gaze once more. He wasn’t sure if Draco truly understood what had happened, but he attempted to convey his gratitude nonetheless. Draco simply shrugged as though to say ‘no big deal’ and gave his hand a squeeze.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Thank you, as always, to my wonderful commenters, kudos-ers and every single reader, new and old. Thanks for reading!!


	18. It's the Little Things

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I am SO sorry for the delay. My internet was down (oh, the horror!) so I couldn't post a new chapter until now. But it's pretty long and full of fluffiness, so I hope that makes up for it.  
> If you enjoy, please spare a moment to share your thoughts! I really appreciate my wonderfully dedicated commenters; as always, love hearing from you all! Enjoy.

“Harry!”

Draco’s gaze rose from studying his fingernails at Hermione’s delighted greeting, grimacing as the Gryffindor flew down the stone steps towards the Entrance Hall. He couldn’t help but take a cautious step in front of Harry.

Seemingly unaware of Draco’s attempt to block her way, Hermione nearly skidded to a stop before him. Her smile was slightly subdued, and for a moment Draco wondered if she would show the same hesitancy, the same tension, that the Gryffindors – and admittedly his own fellow housemates – had shown upon their first meeting. The awkwardness of it had been exacerbated by Harry’s unexpected and obvious distress at the time, but that didn’t mean Hermione would be any more approachable. Draco wondered if Harry had even been aware of how blatant of his distress was, or of the impact it had on those around him.

Whether he did or not, however, Harry apparently decided to take the lead this time around, seeking to brush aside the potential for confrontation before it arose. Stepping around Draco, he smiled shyly, offering that little awkward wave to the Gryffindor girl that he had attempted with Neville and Ron. “Hi, Hermione. Welcome back.”

Just as with Pansy, Draco witnessed the flicker of surprise cross Hermione’s face as she caught sight of the shorter boy. She blinked rapidly, scanning him with impressive efficiency, and cocked her head. Thankfully, Draco didn’t think Harry realised it, or at least didn’t comprehend the meaning behind her confusion. For how perceptive the dark-haired boy was, he was remarkably oblivious in instances revolving around himself.

Though to be fair it had taken Draco a brief moment of pondering to comprehend the cause for confusion himself. He hadn’t realised how different Harry acted now compared to last term until Pansy unwittingly brought it to his attention. With his own sideways glance, he studied Harry. Not only the way he acted; he even _looked_ a little different, though Draco couldn’t exactly put his finger on what had changed.

Hermione smothered her surprise quickly, however, and smiled brightly at the subdued welcome. She made a motion towards Harry, arms widening as if to embrace him, but caught herself just in time. With a jerking of fingers she settled for patting her hand on his arm fondly. Draco was still surprised that Harry didn’t seem to mind such contact so much anymore. He wondered if it had anything to do with his mother’s attempts at overcome the quirk over the holidays.

“It’s so good to see you! How was your break? Did you get all of your homework done?” Hermione leant forwards slightly, squinting. “Oh, you’ve got new glasses! They really suit you!”

Harry flushed and dropped his chin to his chest, once more missing the surprise flash cross the Hermione’s face. Draco bit back a sigh; he wondered how long it would take for his peers to come to terms with Harry’s new expressiveness. How long had it taken him? A faint stirring of something – it felt almost like vexation – twinged in his chest. Oddly, it felt like it was more than frustration at their ignorance…

“Thanks, Hermione. I like your haircut.”

It was Hermione’s turn to blush, only faintly, but she was evidently pleased. “Aren’t you sweet. You’re the only one to have noticed.” Draco wasn’t surprised. It didn’t look any different to him. Probably Harry’s weird memory thing.

Despite her initial pause, unlike her housemates Hermione extended her welcome readily to Draco. “Hello, Draco. Did you have a pleasant break?”

“Exceptionally.”

“Ah. That’s good. I was wondering, did you manage to find any additional sources for the potions essay? I read everything by Hardwick, but he didn’t go into the fermenting process very thoroughly, so I was curious –“

“Already bringing up homework, Hermione?” Ron broke into her gushing tirade, wandering down the stairs with Neville on his heels. It was a fond smile that he gave to the Gryffindor girl, however, rather than irate.

“Classes start the day after tomorrow, Ron, and –“

“Exactly. So that means we have two days of relaxation before we have to start working again.”

“One day, Ron. Only one day. Honestly, I weep for your mathematical abilities.” She sighed, but thankfully withheld any further homework questions. Draco was grateful for that, at least.

Casting a glance around the Entrance Hall, eyes grazing over the few students that wandered through the tall double doors towards the enticing scent of dinner, Hermione frowned. “Where’s Pansy?”

Shrugging, Draco returned his attention back to his fingernails, frowning at his cuticles. “She said she’d meet us at six.”

“Yes, but it’s five past six.”

“Hermione, give the girl a break. Merlin forbid that she’s five minutes late!” Neville grinned at his friend’s scowl, rolling his eyes.

“I was just wondering…”

“And so the dregs trickle in!”

As one, Draco, Harry and the Gryffindors turned towards Blaise’s voice. The Italian boy slouched against the wall at the bottom of the staircase, seemingly sprung from thin air. He was dressed casually in dark trousers and an outer robe, but with a refinement that bespoke of careful decision-making on his part.

Draco made sure his friend caught his hard-eyed scrutiny. “Someone’s dressed up.”

The other boy shrugge. “It’s a party. What do you expect?”

“Where’s Pansy?”

“Upstairs. She’s just finishing with the set up. She sent me down to gather the peasants.” Blaise grinned widely, white teeth flashing.

Draco rolled his eyes at the term, but held his tongue. Blaise’s taunting wouldn’t draw him into verbal combat. He pondered for a moment when exactly he had developed resistance to such baiting. Not for long, however, as a niggling thought called itself to attention.

“Were you with her?”

Blaise gave another shrug. “Of course.”

“I thought she had insisted on solitude.”

“Of course. But I asked so politely. And really, what woman can resist my charms?” Blaise wriggled his eyebrows ridiculously, eliciting sniggers from Neville and Ron and a snort from Hermione. Even Harry cracked a smile.

‘’She actually let you?”

“Draco, _mi amico_ , there is so little you know of the wooing of a woman. A little praise here, a soft word there…”

“Your despicable,” Hermione intoned flatly, staring at him down her nose. Ron had to stifle his snigger as she turned the penetrating glare upon him.

“Aren’t we all, my dear Gryffindor?” With a flashing grin over his shoulder, Blaise led the way back up the stairs. “Come along, you lot. I’m hungry, and I’m not going to wait for stragglers.”

“We’re not having dinner in the Great Hall?” Ron asked as he jogged up alongside him, Neville trailing behind.

“Of course not. What kind of party would it be if it weren’t catered?”

Rolling his eyes at Blaise’s superior tone, Draco nodded his head towards Harry and led the way after them. He wondered if there had been development on part of his two Slytherin friends’ relationship over the break; Blaise certainly seemed a lot more open about his intentions than he ever had before. At least, Draco thought so. Surely he hadn’t been so oblivious before as to have completely overlooked the not-so-subtle insinuations. Had he?

The light-hearted thoughts were a welcome relief from those that had plagued him like a rather demanding Hook-Nosed Fly all afternoon. Granted, breakfast had been a distraction from the events in the headmaster’s office, but then Pansy and Blaise had disappeared and Neville and Ron had retreated to the Gryffindor common room to wait for Hermione. They had, thankfully, parted on amicable terms; the first purely positive sequence of events that he had been party to since leaving France.

Draco had, however, naturally descended into brooding. He considered the Vow, considered his new allegiance, and fretted over just how long the uneasy balancing act would last. He hadn’t seen his parents since he left the headmaster’s office, and in hindsight regretted not at least wishing them farewell before they left for Hogsmeade that evening. Draco didn’t know for how long they would remain in proximity to the castle, but he couldn’t imagine it would be long.

His thoughts naturally led to speculation as to what followed his own discussion with the headmaster. Draco suspected that they had continued conversing after he had nearly run from the room with Harry, but didn’t know exactly what about. It was only when he had entered the Great Hall that the thought even occurred to him. Had they spoken of the Dark Lord? Had his parents also sought protection? Did they similarly make a Vow?

Blessedly, Harry had been at his side all afternoon. His tiredness from the magical procedure he’d conducted on Dumbledore – something Draco still didn’t understand, nor comprehend how his friend had done – seemed to have receded somewhat. They wandered their way idly through the castle, dropping by the library briefly but not pausing to pull a single book from the shelves.

Eventually, and much to Draco’s surprise, Harry had asked if he would like to come back and visit his rooms before dinner and Pansy’s not so surprising ‘surprise party’. It was the first time Draco had seen the room; Harry hadn’t necessarily been reluctant in the past to welcome those from his peer group into the isolated quarters but simply the topic had just never arisen. Harry always emitted a rather private aura, for reasons that Draco had only recently become aware of. It felt almost incriminating to intrude of that privacy.

Not that there had been anything particularly private about the suite. Rather, Draco felt almost disappointed at the lack of personalization. He’d left more of an impression on his bedroom in the French manor after visiting once years ago.

What used to be Professor Featherwood’s rooms were a three-room chain of bedroom, bathroom and sitting room. Not large by any stretch, but respectable, and with the service of the house elves for provision of any additional essentials, it held everything that anyone could need. It appeared, however, that Featherwood had stripped the rooms bare of possessions, from books to pictures, leaving only the skeleton of furniture in the wake of his departure.

“You’ve been in these rooms all year?” Draco asked as he turned slowly in the center of the sitting room.

Glancing at Draco, Harry shrugged. It was a small and typically Harry gesture, yet something about the slight tension of his shoulders bespoke shyness. Perhaps even embarrassment. “Since a little before school started. Why?”

Casting his gaze around him, Draco settled his eyes upon the one personal item in the entire room. Before the modest beige couch, almost directly central on the timber coffee table, was a book: ‘A Be-hoofed Plunge: of Hippocampus, Capricorn and Aquatic Pachyderm.’ He felt a smile spread across his face. It was something so small, but so Harry.

“No reason. Just wondering.” From the dubious expression on Harry’s face he obviously wasn’t buying it, but he didn’t comment further.

Draco had prevailed upon him his skills in packing wardrobes for the rest of the afternoon, deliberately keeping the topic of conversation light and cringing from anything that even smelt of the shadow of the Dark Lord. It was almost a surprise when his wand rung at five o’clock with the Tempus-alarm. He had left Harry briefly to dress himself appropriately. After all, even with such a small group of people, it was still a party.

Apparently the Gryffindors didn’t deem dressing up for such muted affairs to be a priority. Hermione at least looked presentable, but Neville wore a pair of ripped jeans while Ron a pair of positively ancient and decrepit boots and a rather appalling knitted maroon jumper depicting an ‘R’ in white cotton. At least the mystery of where Harry had gotten his own lettered jumper was solved. The contrast between Blaise’s attire and the red-head’s threadbare garments was almost laughable.

“Is this where… you used to come?”

Harry’s quiet voice drew Draco’s scowl from the scuffing of Ron’s saggy boots. “What?”

“This corridor. Wasn’t it where…?”

Blinking to clear thoughts of Gryffindor fashion sense from his mind, Draco glanced around himself. Oh. This corridor. “Yes,” he replied slowly, eyes flickering towards the approaching tapestry of Barnabus the Barmy and his attempts at ballet instruction.

“And that room that you spent so much time in, but won’t tell me anything about?”

Draco nearly stumbled at the hushed words. “What? What room? How do you –?”

“That one that you were working in. With the Vanishing Cabinet that Professor Dumbledore spoke of. It’s around here, isn’t it?”

Feet slowing to a near stop, Draco heaved a sigh. Of course Harry would know about the Room and Draco’s extra-curricular activities, despite the fact that Draco hadn’t explicitly told him anything. He seemed to pick up unspoken facts so easily. Draco hadn’t deliberately lied to him about it, but it was hardly something he was proud of. And Harry hadn’t really asked what he’d been doing in so many words, so… “Seventh floor corridor? Yes, it’s right here. Somewhere.” He peered nervously at Harry. “Are you angry with me?” For some reason it seemed integral that Draco know.

Harry blinked up at him, frowning slightly. “What? Angry? Why would I be angry?”

“Well, because I didn’t tell you… anything, really. Not even after you’d…” Draco trailed off, running his fingers through his hair as his thoughts flickered briefly to the removal of his Dark Mark. Guilt nibbled in his chest; he had learnt so many of Harry’s carefully guarded over the three weeks of the Christmas holidays, circumstantial discovery though it may have been that he felt ashamed that he hadn’t shared even something so relatively small with him in return.

“I don’t mind. It’s not like I asked you or anything,” Harry murmured, taking a half step towards Draco. He managed a feeble attempt at a grateful smile in return.

Their attention was diverted a moment later, however, as Blaise stopped before an ornate wooden door in the wall up ahead. “This, my dear peasants, is Pansy’s Interpretation of the Come and Go Room.” Like a master performer, he gestured grandly towards the little door, as though they were supposed to be impressed.

Draco sighed, quashing the last of his brooding mood. “Would you refrain from your derogatory terms of address?”

Blaise only widened his ever-present grin, grasped the golden door handle, and strode into the room beyond. Ron and Neville followed eagerly behind, Hermione with a shake of her head and Harry with a beckoning tilt of his head towards Draco over his shoulder.

The room was purely Pansy. The first thing that Draco noticed was that it looked absolutely nothing like the room in which he had spent more hours than he could recall. For one, there was a complete absence of clutter. Elegant and refined, yet with a taste of grandeur and superiority that would make those easily cowed hunch their shoulders and shift awkwardly.

Glancing around the room, Draco nodded appreciatively at the high roof and rich, pale walls, the darker emerald carpet so soft it could be felt through the bottom of his soles. It was fairly large, bigger than the Slytherin common room. An impressive fireplace look up the majority of one wall, blaring out heat yet not as much as one would expect from a fire of such a size.

Soft music rippled through the air from an old brass record player, with formless, translucent wraths coiling artfully in time to the melody near the ceiling. A snooker table, already set up and waiting, stood at one end of the room and a table with cards spread for Black-Knuckle wizard poker at a sturdy table sat at its side. There was even a chess set – ridiculously large, to a degree that Draco doubted the stately pieces already growling aggressively at one another were moveable without magic – that took up nearly a quarter of the room. Above it all, a faint, ambient light faded from green to blue to gold, painting the upholstery anew with each shift of colour.

In the center of the room was a scattering of matching couches of smooth, pale white leather. They were so low-lying that they looked almost more like floor mattresses than actual couches. Large tasseled cushions were cast artfully upon each seat, a couple scattered with deliberate casualness across the floor and slumped against the feet of a low, wooden table that was polished to a degree that it reflected the colourful combination of lights almost blindingly. Pansy, dressed in simple but immaculate blue dress robes, straightened herself from where she was fiddling with an array of glistening platters at the table and smiled at their entrance.

Ron and Neville, gaping wide-mouthed around the room, were the first to break the appreciative silence. “Bloody hell. Good job, Pansy. I’m impressed.”

Neville nodded in agreement to Ron’s sentiment. “We never managed to make it anything as refined as this when we were holding DA meetings in here.”

Pansy glowed under the praise, smiling modestly. “It’s a gift.”

Dropping his eyes from the wraths that spun overhead, Draco raised an eyebrow. “A little elaborate, don’t you think.”

“Always ready with a criticism, aren’t we, Draco?”

“It’s for your own benefit. I would hate for you to grow a big head and be unable to fit into those ridiculous hats you so favor.” He kept his tone light, and Pansy was self-satisfied enough that she didn’t even scowl at the jibe.

“Oh, then my thanks, Draco dear.” Blaise snickered, sharing a grin with Pansy.

“How did you manage to conjure food in here? The Room of Requirement doesn’t produce food,” Hermione wondered aloud. Ever the knowledge-gatherer, she gestured curiously to the spread with a sweep of her arm.

“Quite simply, Hermione. I brought it myself.” She grinned at the Gryffindor girl, reservedly at first but it spread at friendly smile Hermione gave back to her. “Happy New Year, by the way.”

“And to you.”

That simple welcoming seemed to break the thin ice of hushed awe and appreciation, ridding them all of the stilted awkwardness. As one, with unanimous, unspoken agreement, they fell upon the couches, slumping with sighs and murmurs of appreciation for Pansy’s taste in cushioning. Draco fell onto one of the lower seats beside Harry, rolling his eyes at the string of compliments offered to his friend and eliciting an indulgent smile from the boy beside him. Pansy seemed to glow more brightly under the praise and preened herself like a bird of paradise.

And just like that, Draco realised they had fallen back into the easy companionability that had gradually settled upon them the previous term. Without question, they settled themselves to filling their bellies.

“Ah, bruschetta! I love bruschetta!”

“What’s that green stuff? I don’t usually eat anything green unless my life depends on it.”

Hermione swatted at the back of Ron’s head. “For goodness sake, Ron, just try it.”

Draco swiped a miniature baguette off a circulating tray, loaded it with cheese and similarly indulged. He hadn’t realised he was hungry until now.

“Pass us the olives, would you?”

“Neville, you can’t eat olives with popcorn. That is a complete clash of cultures,” Blaise announced, looking positively horrified.

“What culture is popcorn even from?”

The clatter of cutlery on glassware and the clink of cups as jugs spilled water from funneled mouths met the babble of chatter. Chuckles and random exclamations linked the separate conversations like the many instruments of an orchestra. Ease seemed to embrace the room as biscuits were devoured and crumbs scattered.

“It’s funny, I wouldn’t have picked you as one to cook, Pansy. It’s really good, though.”

The Slytherin girl nearly dropped her cup at Hermione’s genuine complement, coughing with a failed attempt at delicacy. “Who, me? Hermione, I’ve never cooked a day in my life.”

“What? But then…”

“I used –“

“Don’t say it!” Ron and Neville yelled loud enough that Blaise to nearly fall from his chair.

“House elves, of course.”

Hermione actually did drop her cheese-laden cracker. “What, you ordered the house elves prepare everything for you?”

“Yes, of course. I could hardly do it myself. Why do you ask?”

“Pansy,” Ron groaned, head falling into his hand. “Don’t ask. Not the spew.”

“What’s the spew?”

“No, Harry, not you too!”

“It’s not spew, Ronald, it’s an acronym: The Society for the Protection of Elvish Welfare.” Hermione lifted her chin pompously in motion Draco recognised as one he enacted himself and couldn’t suppress a chuckle. “It’s my own society established with the intention of furthering the rights of house elves.”

“Oh. What’s it all about?”

“Ha-rry! Don’t subject yourself to the torture!”

Groans from the Gryffindor boys were met with scolding from Hermione before she dismissed them for long enough to prevail upon Harry – and an hesitantly curious Pansy – the dire needs of the ‘poor, victimized elves’. Harry kept up an enraptured expression and a steady stream of questions that left Neville and Ron gaping in horror and Blaise shaking with laughter as Hermione became more and more animated and Harry’s questions less and less relevant. Draco wondered how long Harry could keep up the charade before Hermione realised he was leading her on; he had a surprisingly good poker face for this sort of thing considering how appalling he was at hiding any of his other expressions. It probably had something to do with the fact that no one would ever suspect him of deception. At least, Draco thought he wore a poker face. Surely no one could be so engrossed in house elf welfare.

He wasn’t sure how long the chattered of superficial topics that seemed to direct the conversations themselves. It was only when Blaise finally stood, calling for a hush that he realised he had been blissfully enjoying himself; he hadn’t thought of the Vow since he had entered the room. _And I won’t_ , he decided resolutely.

“Alright, my dear peasants,” there was a general groan at the term; Blaise had persisted in it’s use much to the exasperation of all occupants of the room, “not to say that my dear Pansy has not presented an admirable display, but I feel there is something missing.”

“Blaise, you are playing with fire,” Pansy smiled sweetly, raising her glass of water before her eyes in tandem with her rising eyebrow.

“It’s not a criticism; I’m merely… improving upon perfection.”

“That’s rather paradoxical of you, I should think.”

‘Isn’t life a paradox?’

Ron lobbed a cushion at the back of Blaise’s head. “Hey, no philosophical statements this late at night.”

“There’ll be much more where that came from tonight, I can assure you,” Blaise announced. He launched the cushion back at Ron, who only narrowly avoiding the spinning tassels, and drew his wand. “Now, if you please.”

With a sweep of his wand, Blaise cast a Summoning Charm over his shoulder to a hitherto unseen cabinet. Rather, Draco suspected it hadn’t really been there in the first place. The Room seemed to do that sort of thing – hiding it to the extent that it was actually not really there. Somehow.

Door swinging itself open of its own accord, a conga-line of clinking bottles danced towards the couches. It almost looked like they skipped in their eagerness to hurry to Blaise’s side.

“Oh, Blaise, you are a godsend,” Neville groaned, clapping Blaise on the shoulder.

“When did you stash them in my room? I knew I should have kept a closer eye on you when I was setting up,” Pansy remarked with false reprimand.

“Blaise, we’re not supposed to have alcohol on school grounds.”

Draco rolled his eyes. “Hermione, do you actually know anyone who abides by that rule? When was the last quidditch victory party that didn’t at least have either McFerson’s ale, Firewhiskey or nashi cider?” Hermione frowned, but eventually sighed, nodding in resignation.

Swiping up a bottle in each hand, Blaise shook the golden liquid enticingly. “Anyone?” He snapped open the lid and poured into Ron’s waiting glass with a suspiciously deft hand, before proceeding around the room. As it turned out, ‘anyone’ also happened to include Hermione.

Draco would never claim to be a fan of McFerson’s. He had a cultured taste for alcohol, a by-product of partaking from the finest wines – if only watered in his younger years – since he was eight. Still, the warmth that spread through his belly as the night wore on alleviated the distress inflicted on his taste buds.

His experience in drinking lent itself to a somewhat more level-headed approach to the following hours than that of those around him. He was particularly thankful of such when he noticed the distinct lack of reduction in the level of liquid that swished in the bottles each time Blaise filled up a glass. Refilling, no doubt. And the bastard wasn’t likely to tell the hapless, gullible Gryffindors.

Ron was on his third glass of Firewhiskey when he finally challenged Blaise to a chess match. It was to be expected, really, and likely the reason Pansy had set it up in the first place.

“Rematch! Rematch from the last time; you cheated and you know it.”

Blaise adopted an expression of horror. “I would never! That you could suspect me of such wounds me deeply, Ron.” Blaise was a rather loud drunk, befitting of his normal character. He seemed to balance Ron’s own loudness quite well.

“How do you even cheat in a chess match?” Pansy tapped her chin, narrowed eyes drifting hazily to the ceiling. Draco rolled his own eyes. He had expected his friend to keep a better hold of her drinking habits than she was demonstrating.

“I don’t know,” Ron continued, sweeping his arm wildly and barely avoiding splashing the contents of his glass across the couch. “I just know there’s no other explanation for how you stole my queen.”

“Alright then, Weasley, let’s see what you’ve got then. I’ll definitely win this time.”

“Hold on, hold on, hold on! I think we need to be setting some parameters here,” Hermione, seated beside Neville, interjected as she wavered to her feet. Her cheeks were faintly flushed and there was a brightness to her eyes that made Draco wonder if she was aware of how much she’d drunk. “This could be a very… very determin… very deterimin…” She paused, scowling at Neville who sleepily lazily behind her. Drawing a deep breath and tried again. “It would be detrimental to your friendship if we didn’t set ground rules.”

Ron nodded enthusiastically, sharing a grin with Blaise. “Right. Winner takes all.”

“That is not what I meant! The ground rules, Ron, you need rules or everything turns to shit!”

Blinking rapidly in surprise at the cuss, Draco watched the Gryffindor girl hurry after Blaise and Ron as they crossed the room. He turned slowly to Pansy.

The Slytherin girl seemed to be fighting to suppress a snort of laughter, an attempt that caved as she met Draco’s gaze. “Oh, Hermione! How unexpected; I would never have thought you one to speak so basely, even when tipsy.” She descended into giggles that nearly tumbled her from the couch as Hermione cast her a distracted frown. The bushy-haired girl barely spared her a moment, however, before she was back to directing the two chess players into civil play. Predictably, Ron and Blaise completely ignored her.

Sipping at his drink once more, Draco leant back in the seat. Pansy, giggling into her glass, slumped against him. It was a comfortable slouch that would have been completely unacceptable in the Slytherin common room. Draco found he didn’t mind it all that much now, though.

“I’m wonderful. You should be blessing the ground I walk on for setting up this party.”

Draco snorted, but nodded anyway. His eyes drifted towards where Harry had perched himself on the couch beside Neville, knees tucked beneath him in a curl that was so familiar that it drew a smile to Draco’s lips. His hands were wrapped tightly around the glass of honey-coloured liquid and he sipped distractedly as he listened to Neville’s muttered words and yawning comments. Draco was keeping an eye on his small friend; though he was more comfortable with people in general now than he had been months before, there was still that protective urge within him that encouraged keeping an extra eye out for him. Just in case, of course.

“Dray-co. What do you think?”

Draco glanced down at Pansy’s face, pouting at his shoulder. “What?”

“I said, are you up for a game of Black-Knuckles?”

“You’re terrible at Black-Knuckles.”

Another pout. “I practiced over the holidays.”

“You practice every holidays,” Draco sighed, but heaved himself to his feet and followed Pansy’s insistent tugs towards the poker table. He spared one more glance over his shoulder at Harry – just as a precaution for… whatever – before settling himself in his seat. Harry barely raised his head at Draco’s departure.

“Right, you’re handicapped.”

Draco scoffed. “You’re the one who asked me to play. You can’t just handicap your guest, Pansy.”

“Oh shush. You always play handicapped. Don’t complain.” Pansy flapped a hand at him before tapping the top of the deck. The cards began to deal themselves with silent efficiency.

Sighing, Draco raised his hand, spreading the cards. “Alright. What are you going to give me when I win this time?”

“How can you be so sure you’ll win?”

“Pansy, don’t feign ignorance. It’s unbecoming.”

As it turned out, it was a crushing defeat. Draco won every hand with ease, chuckling at Pansy’s grumbling that he ‘hadn’t had as much to drink as she had, which was definitely a tactical maneuver on his part’. Their game was punctuated by calls from across the room as Blaise and Ron enacted what appeared to be a rather aggressive but good-natured battle with the meter-tall chess pieces. Hermione had settled herself on a cushion to watch, slouching back on her elbows but eyes staring with the piercing intensity of a hawk. Her seriousness was comical in the face of Blaise’s taunts and Ron’s catcalls.

Glancing down at his hand, Draco glimpsed the five of clubs – the Knuckles – before flattening his hand once more. _Well, there’s another hand to me_. “Why do you even ask me to play when you so obviously have no talent for this game, Pansy?”

The girl frowned at her own cards, but Draco was under the impression it was directed at him. “Shut up, Draco. I nearly won that last round.”

“Nearly won it? How, exactly, do you figure that?”

Pansy shrugged, glancing up to bat her eyelids at him coyly. Her gaze swept the room a moment later, however, and a grin settled on her face.

“What?” Draco frowned, suspicious of anything that could draw that smile onto his friend’s face. He sipped at his ale; it really didn’t taste that bad anymore.

“Oh, nothing. Just glad everyone’s enjoying themselves.”

“You look far too complacent for that to be the only thing you’re thinking of.”

Pansy’s widening grin confirmed his suspicions. When she replied, however, it was on a completely different topic, so unexpected that Draco froze in the act of placing his glass on the table. “So you and Harry spent Christmas together? That’s unexpected.”

“That’s absolutely none of your business.”

Pansy snickered. “So defensive, Draco. One would think you have something to hide.”

Snorting, Draco took another unnecessary glance at his cards. “What could I possibly have to hide?”

Pansy shrugged before reaching towards the deck and flipping the top card. A king. “To be sure, I don’t precisely know. You seem to have become rather close, though, the two of you.”

“We were fairly close before Christmas. I don’t see how you perceive that much has changed.” Draco couldn’t look his friend in the eye, however; he didn’t even rightly know why, but knew he would flush if he did. “What makes you say that?”

The grin that spread across Pansy’s face was rather terrifying. “Draco, don’t play the oblivious card with me. I can read between the lines.”

“No, you can’t, because there are no lines to read between.”

“So you don’t think you’ve gotten closer?”

Draco shrugged, sighing loudly. “We’ve become good friends, yes.” _And I maybe just… love him a little bit._

“What, and nothing more?”

“No, nothing more?”

“Not even –“

“No, nothing.”

Pansy leant back in her seat, grinning even more widely than before if possible. She ran a tongue across her front teeth and Draco was reminded of a cat licking its lips. “So you’re not dating, then? Really?”

Draco was definitely not flushing. He had just become rather hyperaware of the fireplace and the intensity of its heat. “Where the bloody hell did you get such a notion from?”

“Oh come on, Draco, it’s so obvious. If it was anyone but Harry, I think even they would have known. It was painfully obvious in fourth year when you carried a flame for me.”

Scowling, Draco slapped his cards on the table. “I did not ‘carry a flame’ for you. It was a feeble and inconsequential interest. One I remedied with all due haste.”

Pansy didn’t look put out in the slightest by the criticism. Rather, her expression bespoke delight. Draco had to wonder at the inner workings of a woman’s mind that she could take such enjoyment from something that had infuriated her not two years before. “Remedied on both our parts, I can assure you.” Her eyes flickered around the room once more; really her hostess instincts just seemed to arise naturally.

“I don’t really understand what a brief fling when we were fourteen has to do with anything, anyway.”

Shrugging, Pansy fixed him with a stare. “Only, you always seem a bit hesitant to be the one to initiate anything. I doubt we would have even dated at all if I hadn’t said something to you.”

“What does that have to do with Harry and me?”

Giving him a condescending tilt of the head, Pansy sighed heavily. “Poor Draco. Such denial is unhealthy. It will surely give you an ulcer.”

“It’s not denial if there’s nothing to deny.”

“Nothing?”

“Nothing.”

“Alright. So this overt protectiveness you seem to have for one another is nothing.”

“That’s a little bit of an excessive way of describing it. Some things happened, it’s entirely normal –“

“And your wouldn’t be fazed in the slightest if someone else showed interest in Harry.”

Draco paused, frowning. He didn’t like the erratic manner of Pansy’s questioning, nor the direction she appeared to be heading. “What do you mean?”

“Even if it was platonic, you wouldn’t have a problem with, say… Neville getting closer to him.”

Frowning more deeply, Draco blinked in confusion. _What was she prodding him for? A confession?_ “What are you talking about, Pansy?”

Pansy didn’t seem to be listening to him anymore, though. Her eyes were locked on something over Draco’s shoulder, something that Draco realised she had probably been watching for the past few minutes. Following her gaze, he glanced towards the ring of couches where Harry and Neville still conversed…

It took all his willpower to keep from standing abruptly. It was nothing, nothing really, it wasn’t anything to comment on… At least, it shouldn’t have been. Harry wasn’t sitting that close to Neville, not really. Well, it was pretty close, but it didn’t look like they were touching. Or maybe they were, he didn’t know. But there was nothing particularly wrong with that, it was just because Pansy had set his mind chugging along that train of thought. _It’s not intimate, really, not anything like how Harry and I…_

It wasn’t a problem. Not even when Neville patted a hand fondly on Harry’s shoulder, or edged slightly closer to him and offered him a warm smile. It was the smile of a friend, just a friend. Draco quite liked Neville – or at least, he didn’t dislike him as he had in the past – and he was Harry’s friend. It shouldn’t bother him.

And it wouldn’t have. Except that a moment later, Harry settled his glass down on the couch, leant ridiculously close to Neville and raised his slender fingers to Neville’s face. There was an expression on his own face that spoke of complete focus, an odd intensity that Draco realised probably had more than a bit to do with the drinks he had been consuming.

 _How much has he had? He’d be a flyweight; it’s probably all gone to his head._ The thought was only a distant echo in Draco’s head. There seemed to be a thick, fuzzy cloud smothering the coherency of his thoughts. His attention was focused entirely upon Harry and Neville, nearly twitching as Harry shuffled forward slightly until he was nearly in the other boys lap and ran a finger down Neville’s forehead. Neville smiled lazily at him and murmured something Draco couldn’t hear. Harry nodded rapidly, almost enthusiastically, and stroked Neville’s face again.

 _He doesn’t like to touch people. Why is he touching Neville if he doesn’t like to touch people?_ His chest tightened almost painfully. Before Draco knew it, he was on his feet and striding across the room. He was only faintly aware of Pansy breaking out into raucous cackles behind him, or of the continued cries from the chess match. He strode right up to the couches, looped an arm around Harry’s waist and slid him a good foot down the couch from Neville.

Harry twisted awkwardly and blinked blearily at Draco, fingers still raised before him from where he had been stopped mid stroke. Neville sat up in his seat with difficulty, yawning and running a hand through messy hair. Draco barely noticed. He fixed his stare on Harry’s enquiring gaze.

“Draco?”

“What are you doing?” Draco strove to keep his tone mellow.

“Hmm?”

“More importantly, how much have you had to drink?”

Opening his mouth to reply, Harry paused, eyes drifting slightly and a frown creeping onto his face. His fingers dropped slowly to idly reach for his glass on the table. “Um… I’m not sure. A couple? Blaise filled me up a few times…”

Taking the glass from Harry’s hands, Draco fought to contain the upwelling of tangled emotion within him. Annoyance was there, definitely, though he thought that was mostly directed towards Pansy. Confusion, exasperation… resignation? Or realization? It had been a convenient succession of happenstance events, Pansy’s words accompanied with what he had seen Harry doing, which got him thinking but…

“What were you doing? I saw you across the room.”

“What?”

“With Neville’s face. I was surprised that you actually touched him.”

It was a combination of the annoyance – yes, there was more than a little of that directed towards Neville, too – and his own confusion that led to him speaking of Harry’s touch-phobia, a taboo that had been unanimously acknowledged by their entire group of friends. It probably had a bit to do with the drinks as well; upon consideration, Draco wasn’t entirely sure he knew how many he himself had downed.

Fortunately, Harry didn’t seem to even notice the blatant disregard for his usual shyness. He turned back towards Neville and raised his hand once more to Neville’s forehead. Draco only retrained himself from tugging his friend’s arm back down when he realised Harry’s fingers rested over Neville’s scar.

“His scar; it looks different to mine, but they’re sort of the same, yes?’

“I still don’t really get what you mean by that…” Neville blinked slowly, and Draco was given the distinct impression he was struggling to keep his eyes open. “You don’t have any scars on your face. ‘Sides, this is a scar from a Killing Curse. Not really all that common…”

Harry leant back into Draco’s side and though his fingers still traced the scar on Neville’s forehead, Draco felt himself ease at the contact. Even so, he couldn’t quite bring himself to release his hold on the smaller boy’s shoulders.

 _"Non,_ not my face. _Sur mon dos. C'est un peu différent, quoique_. Not, um, the Killing one.’

Neville rolled his head towards Harry, squinting as though staring at a very confusing puzzle. “Mate, I told you I can’t understand you when you speak like that.”

“Oh, sorry. _Mon erreur_.”

Draco couldn’t help smiling at that. The tightness in his chest and the fuzziness in his head had dissipated slightly, even more so when Harry dropped his arm and settled fully back against him in a snuggle reminiscent of Lyssy. Enough so that he could find the amusement in the situation.

“Do you always have problems with your bilingual capacities when you’re drunk?” Draco grinned as Harry tilted his head backwards, meeting his gaze upside down. Yes, he felt much better now.

“Not bilingual.”

“Oh, so all that French is just a made-up language, is it?”

“Knew it,” Neville muttered under his breath, frowning into the dregs of his glass.

Harry shook his head and fidgeted in his seat. “No, just not bilingual. French, and English, and, um, Spanish, and a little bit of Italian, and I started German –”

“Whoa, slow down, what the hell?” Neville raised both eyebrows incredulously. “Since when?”

Shrugging, Harry turned distractedly towards the chess match across the other side of the room. He seemed to be having difficulty concentrating since his fingers had halted in their stroking of Neville’s head. “Since _college_ – um… middle school. I pick up languages pretty well for some reason.”

Draco stared down at his friend, impressed. “It probably has something to do with that memory thing of yours. You didn’t tell me.”

“You never asked.”

“Oh, so I’m supposed to ask everyone I meet of their linguistic capabilities?” Neville snorted at the comment, shaking his head with more amusement that was probably warranted. Draco didn’t mind; he found that he didn’t actually dislike Neville’s presence on the couch so much anymore. He’d like it a more if he scooted just a little further down, but…

Pansy wandered over a moment later, face still split in a grin. Draco deliberately ignored the pointedly raised eyebrow she gave his arm still resting about Harry’s waist. She seemed to take pity on his plight, however, for without comment she flung herself into the seat between Neville and Harry, uncharacteristically slouching and nearly crushing Neville before he could extricate himself.

“Hey, watch your bony elbows!”

“Oh shush, stop your complaining.” She grinned at Draco, who nodded his head in gratitude towards her. She took the silent thanks with the grace of a queen and with it proceeded to pointedly ignore the hold Draco had on Harry. Mostly, anyway.

Blaise and Ron finished their chess match in a roar of triumph from the Gryffindor and pleas to spare his cowering king from the Slytherin. Ron was merciless, conducting a rather stumbling victory dance around the checkerboard floor cover and stringing together what sounded like pathetic attempts at taunting Blaise’s battle instincts. Blaise, reduced to only three pieces and his king one of them, valiantly launched himself in the path of Ron’s knight and bodily protected the crowned figure, which shrieked shrilly and huddled behind him.

“Even your king is a coward!” Ron laughed uproariously, nearly falling over as the chess piece attempted to wrap himself around Blaise. The Slytherin wriggled in a dance to shake the magical chess piece askew, cursing fluently but also unable to suppress his own laughter.

“Bloody ponce, this is not how I trained you!”

“Do or die, Zabini. Will you sacrifice your king to save yourself?!”

Hermione lurched to her feet. “That wasn’t the rules we specified, Ron. You have to keep to the rules.”

Draco shook his head as the Gryffindor girl planted herself with admirable steadiness before them both, hands on hips and a flush high in her cheeks. Alcohol seemed to bring out the bossiness in the girl even worse than usual. Not that Ron seemed to care; he seemed to be deliberately ignoring her berating and called encouragement to his knight over her shoulder.

“At least the pieces are a little smaller, this time.’”

Glancing towards Neville – the boy looked like he was nearly asleep in his chair – Draco regarded him questioningly at the mumbled words. “What do you mean?”

Peeling open an eye – he really was on the verge of drifting off – Neville squinted at him. “Hmm? Oh, in first year, when we were chasing Quirrell. We had to play a chess match with giant pieces to get through to the next room. Bloody annoying, if you ask me. And I’m rubbish at chess.”

Well, I never knew that. Not of Neville’s chess-playing abilities – everybody knew that – but of the events of first year. It was common knowledge that the Gryffindor Golden Trio had been up to something; Dumbledore had awarded them the bloody house cup for their victory over some unspecified foe. He just hadn’t been aware of exactly what they had done. Pondering, Draco considered Neville curiously. He wondered how much the other boy had been through that he wasn’t fully aware of; he knew there were secrets hoarded like a dragon hoards gold, but he didn’t quite know what. It would be interesting to question the Gryffindor.

Blaise finally extricated himself from the king, moments before Ron’s knight had beheaded the figure with a flourish of his sword. Blaise moaned in mourning of his loss, staring sadly at the headless body that fumbled on his knees for his lost head as Ron pronounced his own glory.

“And that makes thirty-two to thirty. In the lead but two steps! You’re slipping, Blaise; slipping!” The pair of them stumbled over to the couches with Hermione trailing behind them, still talking though mostly to herself by that stage. Draco rolled his eyes as Blaise sent another Summoning Charm to the cabinet and another bottle darted from the hidden depths. It contained something that looked suspiciously like absinthe, and Draco made sure Harry didn’t get his hands on that one.

Neville had fallen asleep and reawakened twice by the time Blaise felt the need to pursue further entertainment. Ron and he had become something of a force to be reckoned with as the hours ticked by, and much to Pansy’s horror had taken it upon themselves to add their own elements to the furnishings and tones of the room. The walls were a mottled hodge-podge of stripes, spots and skewed geometrical patterns, half a dozen chandeliers hung at different heights from the ceiling, and the carpet seemed to have taken on a life of its own and grew like grass at an alarming and varying rate. Across the room were now more chairs, tables, bureaus and statues then could ever be perceived as necessary, and a jumble of magical instruments, broken and half-mended toys and books lay scattered across the floor. It looked like, and effectively was, the site of an explosion.

 _“Noooooo,_ my _room!_ Why do you need a fish tank? I can’t stand grindylows.”

Ron waved his hand at her. “Don’t worry, Pansy, I’m pretty sure it’s just a dead one.”

“That’s just as bad!”

“Hey Ron,” Blaise called over his shoulder, from where he stood in the middle of what appeared to be a small marching band of macabre wooden dolls. “Do you think if I gave these guys the order, they’d infiltrate the Hufflepuff common room and we could finally learn if they sleep in a barn?”

“Blaise, I think that’s an excellent idea.”

“No, you will not send your soldiers into Hufflepuff,” Hermione droned from where she lay on the floor, flicking through a book that Draco was fairly certain was in Gaelic and held upside down. “Holidays or not, you’re still a prefect, Ron.”

“Aw, you’re such a killjoy, Hermione.” Ron pouted so ridiculously that Draco laughed, jostling Harry from where he sprawled across his lap. The pair had moved to an even wider and softer couch that Blaise had taken upon himself to think up, and chattered inanely as the room altered around them. Harry seemed to have regained some sense of sobriety when Draco actively withheld further drink from him.

“Not to worry, Ron. You may be a prefect, but I’m not.” Blaise grinned devilishly, crouching over his wooden dolls as though preparing to relay orders.

“Blaise, even I must protest at that. Those dolls are kind of creepy; I feel like I’d be responsible for any first year’s nightmares that result from the intrusion.” Draco propped himself up on an elbow, staring pointedly at his friend who sighed and nodded resignedly. His regret didn’t last long, however; he was conjuring marionettes a moment later with such focus that Draco had to wonder at his fixation with dolls in general. Perhaps a hidden fetish?

When Harry finally decided to nudge Neville from sleep for the third time – at the insistence of Ron who claimed he was ‘missing all the fun’ – Pansy’s immaculate room had been transfigured into something that far more closely resembled the Room of Requirement that Draco was familiar with. He didn’t particularly like the reminder. Not that it mattered, really, for Blaise had jumped to another idea to seek entertainment. Ignoring Hermione’s muted reference to the time, the Slytherin gathered all of them together and shunted them into the corridor.

“What are we doing?” Draco asked warily, raising an eyebrow at his friend and eyes drifting pointedly to the hand that pushed at his shoulder to urge him from the door. Blaise didn’t answer, but instead held his hands up before them all as though orating to the public.

“I have an idea.”

“I’m not so fond of your ideas at the moment, Blaise. You ruined my room.” Pansy pursed her lips sourly, scowling at the Italian boy.

“Your displeasure is justified but disregarded,” Blaise proclaimed, ignoring the snort of reply. “Anyway, following in our wonderful hostess’s footsteps, I thought maybe we could have a bit of fun. Yeah?”

“What kind of fun?” Suspicion seeped from Hermione’s tone. Ron jostled her with an elbow to keep her quiet.

“This is a room that can produce anything, right?” Blaise shrugged. “I thought maybe we probably weren’t making the most of it.”

“What were you thinking? I’ve got a few ideas that I’ve had in mind since I first saw this place but haven’t really had the chance to try them out.” Neville, though he still rubbed the grogginess from his eyes, looked remarkably livelier than he had an hour beforehand. Apparently the power naps had worked wonders.

Blaise held out his hand invitingly, as though presenting Neville with the ornate door. “How about you give it a go? What would you like to see?”

A grin spread across Neville’s face. “Well, if you insist.”

It turns out Blaise did insist. And when Neville produced a room so cluttered with greenery and dew-laden plants that they could hardly get through the door, he also insisted on everyone else having a go.

It was remarkably enjoyable, Draco had to admit. His experience with the Room of Requirement hadn’t exactly been positive before that night, so he had been hesitant to tempt fate with worsening further tarnishing their relationship. But as the room shifted with each suggestion, he found himself growing more and more relaxed. Ron ended up producing a room of padded walls and floors, impossibly high ceilings and what appeared to be an indoor quidditch pitch that had left Blaise commending his taste, Hermione exasperated and Harry questioning the exact size capacities of the room. Hermione naturally unearthed a library of row after row of multi-tiered shelving even taller than the library that smelt strongly of dust and held that ominous ambience that seemed to naturally mute any conversation.

Blaise’s room seemed to contain just about every luxury item that could possibly be found in the Wizarding world, all arranged and seemingly awaiting utilisation that even Draco couldn’t resist. The chair that seemed to contain some sort of masseur’s capabilities was one of the best things he had ever experiences and he made a mental note to request one next time he saw his parents.

The ballroom Pansy produced was as grand and extravagant as the party room had been elegant and refined. Mirrors lined the walls and a grand piano chimed melodies without a musician in the middle of a wide, open space. Draco had felt rather uncomfortable in the open area, and resisted Pansy’s urges to join her on the dance floor. Instead, he and Harry, who appeared similarly uncomfortable under the scrutiny of his own reflection, waited outside the corridor while Blaise took up Pansy’s offer to dance and proceeded to spin her across the marble floors. They actually looked quite good together.

The room that Harry requested seemed to interest them all, even Hermione, though from her enthusiastic exclamation upon stepping into the room Draco assumed she was familiar with the spread before them. What appeared to be row after row of empty, cushioned seats drew down from the door in a tiered arrangement towards a large, flat white wall. Curtains were pushed back on either side of it like those around a window.

Time had dampened the effects of alcohol enough for Draco to regain most of his levelheadedness. The same seemed to be so for the rest of his friends, peering around the room curiously. He glanced questioningly at Harry, who had simply shrugged with a small smile and made his way down the side of the rows of chairs towards those at the front of the room.

“What is this place?” Ron seemed slightly uneasy, and Draco couldn’t blame him. There was something disconcerting about seeing so many seats all facing the same direction yet looking at nothing save a blank wall. There wasn’t even a picture there.

“It’s a movie theatre. They don’t have the equivalent in the Wizarding world, but it’s quite a common place for Muggles to visit.” Hermione couldn’t quite keep the smugness from her tone as she followed Harry down towards the front of the theatre. The pair settled themselves in the center of the row, three back from the screen as though entirely comfortable with the arrangement. Which they probably were, Draco realised.

“A movie theatre? What’s that?” Following as Draco led the rest of them to the seats beside them, Neville’s own confusion interlaced his words. At least he didn’t sound worried; Draco wondered if Neville actually got worried about anything. He seemed to have remarkably resilient character.

Neither Hermione nor Harry got the chance to speak, however, because at that moment the lights died overhead and there was a blaring noise that caused all those standing to jump half a foot in fright and spin towards the white wall at the front of the room. Draco assumed that was where the sound came from. The colours that spread across the screen were the only thing that had changed in the dark room

“What is that?!” He had to almost yell to be heard over the thrumming noise, a yell that abruptly echoed in the silence that followed the initial burst of noise.

“Oh, the movie’s starting! Come on, sit down, sit down.” Hermione waved towards them demandingly, directing them to their seats as Harry watched her with a smile growing on his face. He seemed thoroughly amused by the hesitancy of the rest of them and it was this more than anything that urged Draco into the seat beside him. He settled with a sigh and cast a glance at Harry.

“Why did you choose this place?”

Harry shrugged again, turning his eyes towards the images that began to flicker across the screen. Draco felt his own gaze drawn towards them and he became so engrossed with the larger than life pictures – reminiscent but different to Wizarding photographs – and accompanying sounds that he almost forgot the question he had asked until Harry spoke again.

“I used to come to the theatres sometimes, when I was by myself a lot in France.” Harry’s voice was even quieter than usual, as though he didn’t want to disrupt the words emitted from the figures on the screen. Not that Draco would have worried; they spoke awfully loudly. “It was only when my uncle was away on business, or out late with work. It’s sort of nice, just to be somewhere where no one is looking at you and you can be distracted for a little while.”

Draco half-turned to his friend slowly, regarding him from his periphery. Harry’s smile had faded somewhat, leaving only a ghostly shadow in its wake. He looked slightly wistful and a little sad as he stared at the screen. Draco didn’t particularly like it, and slowly slipped his hand into Harry’s. The motion worked as well as it usually did. Sharing a glance, Draco was relieved when Harry’s small smile grew on his face once more.

He was prevented from replying, however, when Hermione hissed in Harry’s ear. It wasn’t really a whisper, as Draco could hear it perfectly, even with the movie people’s voices. “Is this ‘Braveheart’? It’s ‘Braveheart’, isn’t it? I wanted to see that, but never got a chance to.”

“Braveheart?” Draco asked, leaning forward to better convey his words.

Hermione shifted her gaze to him. “An insight into history, Draco, if a little romanticized. You should pay attention.” He didn’t like the smug expression on her face, but Harry was watching it so he settled into his seat and followed his example. It was actually quite interesting, when one got over the disconcerting realization that the movie was in fact entirely separate from the audience and the figures in the picture didn’t interact whatsoever. It was almost like a photograph with the sequence set on a very long and very elaborate loop.

When the lights came back on, Hermione urged them all from their seats with unnecessary haste. She said something about having to leave with punctuality when the movie was finished that Draco couldn’t quite understand; why would they need to hurry to leave? There was no one to even tell them to leave, let alone fill their seats which was what Draco got the impression Hermione was suggesting. She diverged before he could ask her about it, though.

“What I don’t understand is the principle of Technological Conflict. How did the Room produce a movie theatre when it can’t accept something as simple as a kitchen appliance? A microwave, for instance, is more likely to explode than cook food.” Draco didn’t know what a microwave was, but it sounded dangerous. Hermione didn’t seem to care much for his opinion, however. Her attention was focused solely upon the only other member of their party from the Muggle world.

“I’m not sure. I thought about that when I first saw the room but…” Harry trailed off, tapping a finger to his chin in thought. “Maybe it’s not an actual theatre?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, maybe it’s just a Wizarding version of it. As close to a copy of the Muggle movie theatre as you could get. Or something.”

“Wizards don’t have anything like that,” Pansy commented. She actually seemed disappointed at the prospect.

“I know,” Harry continued. “But you have moving photographs and talking portraits. I’m sure there would be some way to replicate it.”

“There’s nothing all that unusual about moving photos, though.” Ron scratched his head, in honest bafflement.

“Maybe not to you. To a Muggle I’m sure it would seem pretty strange.” Harry’s comment left them all pondering, except for Hermione who nodded her fervent agreement.

When Pansy, the last one out of the Room, closed the door behind her, all turned expectantly towards Draco. He paused for a moment, confused, until comprehension dawned.

“Lucky last, my friend.” Blaise patted him fondly on the shoulder. “Show us what you’ve got.”

“We probably shouldn’t take too long. It’s very late.” Hermione cast a _Tempus_ charm to punctuate the claim and Draco just caught a glimpse of a one, a three and a six before it disappeared.

Shrugging, Draco cast a glance down the hallway. “It is late. Perhaps we should just head off.”

“What? No, you’re the last one. Everyone needs a turn.”

“I’m fine, Blaise, really.”

“Draco, don’t be a wet blanket. What, are you nervous something embarrassing will show up? Come on, give it a go.”

How could he explain why he didn’t want to trigger the spells on the Room of Requirement? How could he tell them that the very thought, the memory of doing so numerous times in the past left him with a queasy churning in his gut? He knew what Room would show up, and he had vowed that he wouldn’t inflict it upon himself again. What if he saw the Cabinet, with everything it stood for, and…?

“I’m actually feeling sort of tired. Maybe we could just leave it?”

Harry. Of course it was Harry who spoke up. Harry was the only one who had any inkling of Draco’s discomfort and likely the only one who actually saw his unease in that moment. Raising his eyes towards his friend, he was met with quiet affection and sympathy, understanding and acceptance. He offered a small smile, then sighed heavily as though tired. Yes, Harry was rather good at deceptions when he wanted to be, even though his face was now as easy to read as a book. Quite remarkable.

“Oh,” Blaise looked faintly disappointed, but the duel comments of Harry and Hermione seemed to sway him. “Well, if you really don’t want to.”

Except in that moment, abruptly changed his mind. Draco actually did want to. Harry was there to support him if he needed it. The slight squeeze of his hand told Draco as much. And besides, it was just a room. Just a room. There was nothing in there that could possibly threaten him. Not any longer.

“Maybe just quickly?” Draco posed the statement as a question, and Blaise brightened, nodding enthusiastically. Draco wondered if anyone actually realised he had asked the question solely of Harry. His friend only smiled again briefly and dipped his head in acknowledgement.

In barely a minute, Draco stood in front of a plain wooden door. He was unsurprised that the door was familiar, down to the faint scratch beside the handle that he had sliced into it in a fit of rage at one point. He wondered that the door had retained that feature. Stepping forwards, twisting the knob, he eased his way into the Room.

It was exactly as he remembered, down to the old accordion discarded to the left hand side of the door. Sprawled out before him was a jungle of broken and ancient magical artifacts, stained furniture and limply hanging drapery. Dust lathered the floor like carpet.

“What possessed you to think up of this room?” Blaise muttered behind him, confusion thick in his tone. Draco didn’t answer, stepping through the doorway and allowing his friends to follow him through. Harry slipped to his side without a word, fingers sliding between his own. The soft coolness of his palm eased some of Draco’s growing tension.

“This is like a goldmine in here.” Awe was a thick in Ron’s tone as Blaise’s confusion. “I mean, most of it looks like junk, but I reckon you could find a fair bit that’s actually valuable.”

“Is that an Apathosphere?” Pansy’s voice echoed as she started into the room, weaving between towers of precariously balanced ornaments. “I’ve never seen a real one before.”

“There’s more brooms here than would be needed for an entire quidditch squad.” Neville wandered off in the other direction, Ron trailing behind him. “Hey look, Ron, an antique! I don’t think they even make Torchwoods anymore.”

“Neat. Do you think we could take them?”

“Ron, you shouldn’t just take things from the Room without asking. It could belong to someone,” Hermione chided, following in the wake of her two friends. Draco peered after them as they ducked beneath an overhanging curtain, leaving he, Harry and Blaise just inside the door.

Blaise stared in continued confusion at Draco, brow wrinkling. He seemed to be struggling with the concept that Draco hadn’t requested a room jam-packed with every desire he could think of. “What brought this on?”

Draco shrugged, dropping his gaze from his friend’s. Blaise stared for a moment longer, before shrugging in turn. “Whatever. I’m going to go and find Pansy. She’s like a Niffler sniffing out gold in a haystack when it comes to hidden treasures. Maybe she can find something interesting.” His boots kicked up dust as he disappeared in the direction Pansy had wandered.

Without realizing, Draco found his gaze drawn to the little passage that led towards the Vanishing Cabinet. He couldn’t miss it; the glass statue of a rather ugly fairy seemed to direct him with a demanding frown.

“Did you want to go and see it?”

Nearly starting at Harry’s hushed words, Draco glanced towards him. There was no forcefulness in his expression; he wasn’t pushing Draco to confront the bad memory. His words were exactly as they sounded; Harry simply asked. And somehow that made it seem doable. Like Draco had a choice and that choice could be denied if he so desired.

_How does he always know the right thing to say?_

Nodding slowly, Draco reaffirmed his grasp on Harry’s fingers and led the way through the labyrinthine columns of miscellaneous trash. Past the ugly fairy, turning left at the splintered remains of an old piano, stepping over the soft matt of discarded cushions so faded and covered in dirt that their original colour was no longer discernable. It wasn’t far, really, and Draco found himself before the ornate Cabinet within minutes.

It still looked imposing, even when he knew it was no longer a foe he had to confront and fail against time and time again. There was something about the aged wood, the intricate paneling and the solidity of the object that caused him to struggle against shrinking from it. Swallowing, he pointed rather redundantly at the structure.

“This is it.”

He could feel Harry nod beside him. “It’s not exactly the most beautiful piece of furniture, is it?”

It was such an unexpected statement that Draco barked a laugh in surprise. Then he couldn’t stop himself. Distantly, he was aware that his laughter was bordering on hysterical, but he couldn’t stop himself. It just seemed to irrationally funny.

When he finally got the breath to speak once more, he realised that the weight that had settled upon his when he stepped into the Room had lifted. With more confidence than he would have thought possible two weeks ago, he looped an arm around Harry’s shoulders in a on-armed hug. He didn’t say anything, though. He didn’t really know what to say, not about the Cabinet, nor his gratitude for Harry’s support.

Not that it mattered. Harry just looped an arm around his waist and gave him a half-hug in return. It was the best feeling Draco could have experienced, and suddenly made the visit to the Room, to this version of the Room in particular, worth it.

They probably stood there for longer than Draco realised. Not moving, and not talking, simply staring at the Cabinet. It seemed to grow less and less imposing the longer they stood there. It was Pansy’s voice that finally called them back to reality.

“Dray-co! Where are you? Have you gotten lost, dear?”

Rolling his eyes, Draco shared a glance with Harry. “The voice from the depths.” He was rewarded with a small sigh of Harry’s subdued laughter. Turning them around, Draco exchanged his one-armed embrace for a simple handhold once more. Harry allowed himself to be tugged along behind him as he led the way back to the entrance. Pansy and Blaise talked quietly, eyes scanning over the columns as though keeping an eye out for their returning friends. In Pansy’s arms were…

“Pansy, is that a dress?”

Turning towards them, Pansy beamed. “Why yes, yes it is. Your powers of perception have grown markedly, Draco.”

 _“Why_ do you have a dress?”

The girl shrugged, not in the least bit embarrassed by his pointed stare. “Because, Draco, it’s beautiful and it fits, despite being so vintage.”

“You tried it on?”

“Yes, she most certainly did,” Blaise smirked suggestively before ducking from a swat from the girl. Draco didn’t miss the flush that coloured her cheeks, however, or the slightly pleased smile that curled her lips before she turned away.

“Where are Hermione, Neville and Ron?” Harry glanced curiously around them, eyebrow rising.

“Over here!” Ron’s voice bellowed loudly across the room, thinned slightly by distance and towering hurdles of junk. Following the tug of Harry’s hand as he wandered towards the voice, Draco sighed melodramatically.

“Tell me they haven’t gotten lost.”

“Not lost,” Hermione piped a moment later, rounding a punctured partition and smiling brightly. “Just having a look around.” She affixed Draco with an appreciative stare. “Good pick, Draco. This place is a goldmine. I wouldn’t be surprised if every possible item the Room of Requirement could produce was in here.”

“Well, it’s certainly big enough,” Draco murmured, and ignored the curious glance she gave him.

“How do you know that? Have you been here before?”

Draco was spared from answering as Harry turned nearly on the spot, frowning. “Where’s Neville?”

“Oh, he’s right…” Ron turned to empty space behind him. “Hey, Neville. Mate, where’ve you gotten yourself to?”

“Has the Gryffindor Golden Boy gotten himself lost?” Blaise didn’t sound worried in the slightest. Amused, if anything.

“Neville!” Hermione called, starting back in the direction she’d come. Harry, fingers still locked in Draco’s hand, dragged him along too as he followed behind her.

It turned out Neville wasn’t too far away. Crouched in a squat, he appeared to be staring intently at something in his hands. So intently that he visibly started when Hermione tapped him on the shoulder.

“What are you looking at?” She asked, peering curiously over his shoulder.

Neville shrugged, rising to his feet. “Dunno. Some sort of crown or something.” He hefted something that looked a bit like an old, discoloured tiara.

“Speaking of ugly,” Draco mused.

“I don’t think it’s ugly so much as… dated,” Harry corrected, peering at the tiara before frowning questioningly at Neville. “Where did you find it?”

Neville shrugged again. He hadn’t taken his eyes off the headpiece since they had found him and was staring at it as though it had somehow offended him. “I just picked it up off the floor.”

“O-kay, that’s wonderful,” Blaise chimed in, coming up behind them. “But right now, I think my asthma is going to start kicking in. Do you mind if we get out of here?”

“Blaise, you don’t have asthma.”

“You never know, Pansy.”

“Actually, I do.”

Draco shook his head as he followed after the pair, side by side with Harry. He glanced over his shoulder to make sure the Gryffindors followed and raised an eyebrow. He wondered if anyone else saw Neville slip the tiara into the back of his belt. It was a day for revelations: Blaise’s puppet fetish, Pansy’s grindylow phobia, and now Neville’s fascination with antique headpieces. Who knew?

Perhaps it was the dust in the room, or simply the late hour, but as they all filed out of the Room for the last time, sleepiness seemed to settle upon them all. As each lit their wands with a _Lumos_ – Harry excepted given he had, of course, left his wand in his rooms – Hermione checked the time once more and declared two o’clock in the morning far too late to be awake still. She adopted her scolding face and with a severe finger pointed the Slytherins towards the dungeon while urging Ron and Neville in the direction of the Gryffindor tower.

“At least she’s not having a fit about being out after curfew,” Ron called over his shoulder. “She used to be obsessive about being back in the common room by eight.” He received a cuff behind the ear for his comment and the Slytherins hastened towards the dungeons snickering at the echoed scolding of Hermione Granger that followed them for far longer than should have been possible.

It was when they neared the stairwell leading down to the dungeons that Draco approached his dilemma. A dilemma that Pansy apparently found no difficulty with overcoming.

“Draco, you’re going back to Harry’s rooms, right?” It wasn’t really a question. Draco suspected he would have received a tongue-lashing had he responded negatively.

“What? Why’s he going back to Harry’s rooms?”

Pansy rolled her eyes at Blaise. “Honestly, Blaise? You have to ask?” At his continued bafflement, she sighed. “He’s walking him back. Harry doesn’t know the corridors so well still. He could get lost.”

“What, still?” Blaise sent Harry an incredulous glance, which Harry replied with one of bemusement. “Harry, you need to get yourself a better sense of direction.”

Pansy looked as though she could smack her head at her friend’s naivety. She somehow refrained, much to Draco’s gratitude. He could feel a faint warmth rising into his cheeks once more. “Come on, fool. I’m tired and you need to walk me back to the common room.”

“What, you have directional problems too?”

“Don’t test me, Blaise. I’m a wearied woman. Here, hold my dress.” And with a billow of silken skirts, she dumped the garment into Blaise’s arms, linked her elbow through his, and drew him away. With a final wave and word of farewell over her shoulder the pair disappeared into the darkness.

Turning towards Harry, Draco fought once more to keep the redness from his cheeks. _Dammit, Pansy, now you’ve got me thinking._ He'd managed to entirely ignore the incident that had occurred in Pansy’s party room, excluding it as a hiccup in an otherwise comprehensible and admittedly enjoyable night. Now the girl had gone and been so suggestive.

Not that Harry seemed to have realised it at all. He looked as though he were ready to fall to sleep on his feet as he covered a yawn with his hand. Blinking in the aftermath, he noticed Draco’s scrutiny and smiled fondly.

 _Is it only fondness? Does he even see our friendship like I do?_ Somehow, the very thought of Harry seeing anyone like that seemed a little otherworldly. Harry was different like that, sort of innocent and a little pure.

 _Not to mention the fact that for someone who has been through what he has… to even be thinking of a relationship… Wait, who said anything about a relationship?_ He shouldn’t be thinking that, shouldn’t be even contemplating it. Draco’s revelation at Christmas was one thing; he could accept that he loved Harry. But why did he have to extend it further? Fetter it, as the Bond of Eternity tapestry had said, by any particular name. _Why do people have to label such feelings?_

He didn’t know, but for whatever reason, despite the logic that the tapestry had promoted, there was a _need_ to classify it, to understand –

“What’s wrong? Are you tired?”

Blinking to focus his eyes – not that they had drawn from Harry’s face for a moment – he forced down the rush of a blush. “Tired? Yes, yes I think I am.” He attempted a smile but felt he was only mildly successful.

Harry nodded, accepting the explanation and turned away from the dungeon. Quite contrary to Pansy’s excuse, Harry knew his way around the castle quite well. Draco followed after him slowly.

It was only when they entered the rooms once more that Draco realised he probably should have said something about the sleeping arrangement. He hadn’t even thought about sleeping in the Slytherin common room, but now it seemed as though it should have been something he had discussed with Harry beforehand.

Stepping just inside the door to Featherwood’s rooms, Draco paused. “So, should I…?” He pointed a thumb over his shoulder as Harry turned to him questioningly.

“Did you want to leave? I was, I mean, I was hoping you might have wanted to stay here,’ Harry murmured, fiddling awkwardly with his cuffs. And that was that. Draco could hardly object, especially if there were no further objections from professors. The unrealized sinking in his gut abruptly abated.

They made quick work of changing, slowly and with a gradually prevailing lethargy. Draco just a half-hearted Teeth-Cleaning Charm before falling onto the bed beside Harry. His friend was already huddled in his typical curl, Lyssy pressd against his back and sound asleep, their simultaneous breathing sounding in soft puffs. Not a word further had been spoken since changing, but it hardly mattered.

Lying down on the pillow beside Harry, Draco tucked a hand under his head. He stared intently at his friend’s relaxed face; Harry rarely sunk into sleep before him and it was a rare treat to simply watch him. Quite appropriate, given the direction his thoughts had drifted that night.

With a smile, he realised Harry hadn’t even bothered to remove his glasses. Reaching forwards, he gently tugged the frames from his nose, eliciting a faint, incomprehensible murmur. Draco always liked seeing Harry’s face without glasses. Oh, his mother had chosen superbly, to be sure, but there was something about seeing pale cheeks un-shadowed, long dark lashes curling beneath his eyes, that captivated him. Almost without his permission, his fingers drifted forwards to tug at the fringe of dark hair that trailed across Harry’s face.

_I don’t know how I ever missed he was beautiful._

He couldn’t help himself. It just happened. His thoughts, Pansy’s words, Harry sleeping so relaxed and trusting beside him. He leaned forward as if in a trance and before he could second-guess himself, pressed his lips to Harry’s.

It was a brief kiss; chaste and juvenile. But it was also warm. Soft. Delicious and sweet, it tasted faintly of the nashi cider. The moment their lips touched seemed to last both forever and for a split second. Harry stirred slightly in his sleep, murmuring inaudibly into Draco’s lips, but he didn’t pull away. It was Draco who did that.

And was abruptly gripped by an overwhelming influx of self-reprimand.

_I shouldn’t have done that. I shouldn’t have done that, not without asking, not without telling him how I feel. I shouldn’t have done that._

The words kept replaying themselves in his mind like a broken record and he found himself mentally kicking himself. Harry wouldn’t have wanted that. It had been a selfish motion, completely without consideration for his friend. Surely a kiss – a _kiss_ – would be the last thing Harry would want.

Biting his lip, Draco felt the guilt well inside him. The broken record looped in replay. And yet as he lay awake until the next morning, he couldn’t bring himself to entirely regret it. Harry’s lips had been so soft. And if it was the once chance he got, he would treasure the memory like the sacred moment it had been. After all, it was the moment he had finally understood just how much he loved him.


	19. Lightning Strikes A Sudden Blow

It was actually quite beautiful. Oh, Harry didn’t think that someone like Draco would think so; Draco would likely take one look at the creature, the teal scales and half-raised ridge along each of its five necks, behold the withered, purplish frill fanning behind its ear holes and see the yellowish fangs that protruded out of a lipless mouth, and shudder at the very sight of it.

To Harry, though, the hatchling hydra was gorgeous.

“Alrigh’, you lot, take a good look at ‘im. Or her, as it may be. As yeh should know by now, hydras can’ be sexed before they become yearlings. Most specialists actually think that they don’t have a sex before that age; just choose whichever one is most in need in their population at the time.” Hagrid cast a glance around the class eagerly; he always looked so excited to share knowledge of a ‘newest pet’. “It’ll probably be a couple of weeks before another head starts developing too, and by the time its able to be sexed it should have at least the beginnin’ of all five.’

Hagrid beamed at the small sixth year class. It was the end of their second week back into term and the first lesson they had actually seen the hydra rather than just studied its ecology and viewed the egg. It had been an impressive egg, to be sure; ‘big enough to make an omelette to share between most of the school’ Hagrid had joked on more than one occasion. It had only hatched half a week ago, and only the middle of the three heads had opened any of its eyelids. That single black eye regarded the student audience from its small paddle pool with quiet intensity.

“Righ’, now, before the end of today, I want yeh all teh have a single sketch of at least one of the heads teh use as a template for your finished copies due at the end of the hydra unit. Yeh’ll be lookin’ up the most important areas to keep an eye out for when handlin’ one of these little beauties. All the pressure points, the ones they like and the ones they don’, and which spots you should definitely avoid ‘less you want a face full of boiling acid.” He beamed again, as thought such a demise was the most delightful prospect in the world.

“It hasn’t got any legs,” Hannah noted, raising her hand and leaning forward slightly to peer into the pool. Harry credited her courage after the acid comment. It was true though, he realised. The hydra looked more like a three-headed snake than the lizard-like creature depicted in their textbook.

“No,” Hagrid affirmed, “and ‘e won’, not till ‘e’s at least two years old. ‘E’ll grow little flippers first that should come sprout within a couple o’ days; those’ll become legs. Four of them, all up, unless it’s a girl of course.”

“Is that because of their dispersal?”

Hagrid turned his beaming smile onto Mandy at her quiet words. “Yes, it is. The girls don’ usually trek far from the water. They wait for their mates to come to them. As this species of hydra is found both in the sea and in lakes, sometimes they need to move across land to find their mates.”

“Tough, having to grow an extra couple of legs to get a girlfriend,” Neville whispered to Harry under his breath. Harry hid a smile.

“Right! On with you all. ‘E probably won’ be spittin’ any acid at his age, but it’s best to stand back a little, just in case he decides to take a lunge at you.” As one, all the students took a step backwards before riffling into their bags for parchment and charcoal.

“It’s pretty tiny, really, when you actually look at it. I mean, hydra are supposed to grow as big as a dragon, right?” Neville muttered, shimmying himself onto his stomach. He grunted as he elbowed a stick from under his chest, flattening his parchment at the same time.

Harry nodded. “Yeah, at least. Even bigger, most of them, apparently.” He was having trouble dropping his eyes from the creature in the pool for long enough to continue his sketch. The black eye seemed to have pinned him hypnotized, though he knew that wasn’t possible for hydras. “I wonder where Hagrid got it from.”

“Don’t think too hard, Harry. I’m pretty sure Hagrids in the black market for this kind of thing. You know he wound up with a baby dragon when I was in first year?”

“What?” Harry blinked at Neville incredulously. “How?”

“Long story. Point is, he has a knack for collecting anything large and dangerous.” Neville dropped his eyes to his parchment, sketching a quick curve. “Damn, I suck at drawing.”

Harry murmured agreement at his own attempts, finally wrenching his gaze away from the creature to hash his own smattering of sketch. He had never spent much time drawing before. It was rather calming, even if he felt that, like Neville claimed, he didn’t have much of an artist’s hand.

Quiet had descended on the small class, an easy and comfortable hush. They had all grown quite comfortable with one another over, more even in the last few weeks than in the previous term. Harry could honestly say that even aside from the course content, Care of Magical Creatures was probably his favourite classes. Smaller classes were far preferable to those that held nearly the entire sixth year cohort. All of them knew and largely accepted each others quirks, of which Harry was grateful. One particular quirk, curled in his lap fast asleep, seemed to have become something like their class mascot.

Harry stroked a hand down Lyssy’s spine, eliciting a sleepy meow and a burst of images into his head. _**‘What? Soft, pat me, rub my ears. Something wrong? Sleepy…’**_ Even half-awake, the line of communication opened with ease. Lyssy never went anywhere without her collar, and had even come to take pride in it to a degree. Harry was relieved by the fact; he found he loved the constant source of mental contact, accessible even at a distance, he had discovered. Their understanding of one another only grew with time.

“Urgh, bloody thing put the head I was sketching down.” Neville groaned, pushing himself up onto his knees. “Mr. Hydra, would you mind?”

The hydra, predictably, kept said head dunked firmly in the water.

Another grunt and Neville rose to his feet. Taking a step forward, he craned his neck in an attempt to glean a better look. The middle head shifted its black eye onto him.

Harry flickered his eyes between the both of them. “Um, Neville? I don’t think you should…”

“It’s okay, Harry, I’m not going to get too close or anything. I quite fancy keeping my skin covering my bones.” Neville still took another step forward though.

Casting a glance over towards Hagrid, who had moved towards a large wooden crate with straw sticking out of it and was clanking through something that sounded oddly like pots and pans, Harry eased himself onto his knees. Lyssy slipped silently from his lap; she seemed to sense something was afoot. “Neville, I really don’t think you should –“

A gurgling hiss cut him off. Neville had, naturally, taken another step closer, and with his approach the middle head arched its neck impressively, frill fluttering like the wings of a fledgling bird as it attempted to spread. The black, beady eye fixed upon Neville widely, though even blind the other two heads rose and pointed waveringly towards him.

“Neville…”

“No way.”

For a moment, Harry thought Neville was disregarding his caution, but no, the words weren’t directed towards him. The Gryffindor boy sounded faintly surprised, perhaps a little awed, and not scared in the least. Horrifyingly, he took another step forwards. “Who’d’ve thought?”

“Neville, what are you -?”

“Hey Harry, this guy speaks Parseltongue!”

Harry frowned, startled from his rising concern. He’d read about Parseltongue: speaking to snakes verbally, as impossible as that seemed. “I thought that only worked with snakes.”

“Oh, Neville, did yeh speak with ‘im?”

Neville turned as Hagrid stepped up towards him carrying, strangely – but not altogether unexpectedly given the noises he’d been eliciting from the barrel – a fistful of pans. “Did you know it could speak Parseltongue?”

Hagrid shrugged. “Some specialists say they migh’, but not every hydra responds when people try. ‘Sides, it’s not like Parseltongues are all that common to test it.” Holding out a pan as though he were gifting Neville with an entirely practical tool, he gestured towards the hydra hatchling. “They’re a close relative of snake, yeh know. Say anything interestin’?”

Neville stared bemusedly at the pan. “Um, no, not really. Just warning me not to get too close.” He hefted the pan. “What do I need a frying pan for?”

“What? Oh, it’s not the pan that you really need, just a reflective surface of some sort. Hydras, see, they like the look of themselves. Of their own heads, yeh know? It’s familiar, cause they always have ‘em around ‘em. So it’s better to carry something reflective if yeh know yer coming across one.”

“Yes, because a mirror would be too conventional?” Neville muttered just loud enough to hear. He grinned, though, to take the bluntness off his words. Hagrid didn’t seem to even notice the jibe, continuing to smile blissfully at the hydra. Harry though he looked a bit like a doting parent.

“You can have a chat with ‘im, if yeh like. Just… not too close, mind, Neville.”

“Sure thing. Thanks, Hagrid.”

Harry watched as Neville proceeded to hiss a string of ‘words’ at the hydra, brandishing his frying pan like a shield. The hydra attempted to flair its frill once more, before letting it drop slightly and hissing in reply. It was quite an impressive display to witness.

“…know that’s Dark magic. Since second year…”

“Do you think we should say something?”

The whispers reached Harry’s ear in a buzz of half-heard conversation. Glancing towards the two Hufflepuff girls, he blinked in surprise as he noticed the wariness on their faces. No, it was more than wariness. Fear.

Frowning, he opened his mouth to speak, but Mandy beat him to it. “Honestly, Susan, Dark magic? How long have you spent in Care of Magical Creatures and you still actually think that snakes are the embodiment of evil?”

Susan flushed at Mandy’s reprimand, dropping her chin shamefully. “It’s just… it’s Parseltongue.”

“Yes. And?”

Patting her friend sympathetically on the shoulder, Hannah blinked widely at Mandy. “You know Parseltongue was used by You-Know-Who. That means –“

“Yes, and I’m sure You-Know-Who also used _Lumos_ charms and mixed a simple Sleeping Draught in third year. Does that make them evil too?”

Harry stared wonderingly at the Ravenclaw girl. Mandy was a rather plain girl physically, if one took the time to consider her appearance, and though she studied with the dedication of every Ravenclaw she was only barely above average in terms of marks. Her natural pensiveness often caused her to be overlooked, even in such a small class. Harry was pleasantly surprised at the insight she showed, and surprised further at the note of defiance in her tone. When Voldemort was discussed, his name was more likely to be accompanied by terror and a distinctly sickly pallor.

Turning away from the abashed Hufflepuffs, Mandy drifted her gaze back to the hydra. It might have been a sixth sense, or simply glimpsing him from her periphery, but a moment later her eyes shifted to Harry. She stared at him blankly for a moment, then mouthed a curious ‘what?’

Shaking his head, Harry shrugged. He offered her a smile, mouthed ‘nothing’ and turned his own attention back to the hydra. He thought he caught a startle from Mandy out of the corner of his eye, but didn’t glance her way again to check. It probably was. People had been doing that a lot over the past few weeks since returning to school. Harry hadn’t noticed it immediately, but since Draco had noted humorously that whenever he smiled at someone the object of his attention seemed to mentally short as though shocked into silence, he had been unable to over look every such instance anything.

Neville was flashing the pan deftly at the hydra, hissing in conversation to the exclusion of his classmates while Hagrid looked on in rapt attention. Harry didn’t know what they were talking about; it didn’t really matter. If Neville felt their exchange was important – or mildly interesting, for that matter – he would share it. With his efforts, however, the Gryffindor was able to encourage the hydra into a perfect posing position that enabled the class to produce quite detailed sketches. Harry finished the class with a rather impressive bundle of parchments and if the drawings weren’t the work of an artist then at least there were enough for cross-examination.

Wandering back up to the Great Hall for lunch, predictably Neville chattered animatedly about his conversation with the hydra. He was so enthusiastic that he barely paused to load his plate when they both settled down at the Gryffindor table.

“But it’s not like it was even that understandable, really. It felt almost like, I dunno,” he paused, taking a bite of the sandwich and letting his gaze drift ponderingly. “It’s hard to say, really, because its sort of like a different way of speaking entirely, but it felt a little like speaking to a little kid or something. You know?”

Nodding, Harry nibbled on a stick of carrot. “It’s probably because it’s only just hatched. Still young, yes?”

“Yeah, true.”

“Or maybe it’s just an animal thing? When I talk to Lyssy, it’s sort of like that.”

Neville paused mid chew, raising an eyebrow. He knew about Draco’s Christmas gift – Draco made sure everyone knew of the gift, and how much Harry cherished it – but Harry rarely spoke of it himself. “What d’you mean?”

“When I talk to Lyssy, it’s sort of like that not-quite-language. More like images than actual words. I don’t know if with you…?” He trailed of questioningly to Neville.

The other boy shook his head. “No, not images so much. Sort of words, but a bit stilted or something.”

Harry nodded his understanding. “Yeah, it’s a bit like that. Or maybe, not so much stilted but all over the place. A bit like a stream of consciousness.”

Neville frowned in confusion until Harry gave him an example, then nodded vigorously. “Yes! That’s exactly it. It’s just like that. Like it says basically anything that comes into its head.”

“Who says everything that comes into their head?”

Harry and Neville turned in unison at the sound of Draco’s voice. The tall, slender blonde wandered towards the Gryffindor table as though he owned the Great Hall, gliding with a fluid grace that draw to the eyes in a way that Harry often found himself guilty of. He wasn’t the only one, too. Draco just seemed to demand attention, and it was hardly a deterrent that his perfect and immaculate features were easy on the eye.  
He settling himself down in the seat next to Harry with the same grace he conducted everything. Pansy and Hermione, deep in discussion just behind him, followed suit. No one even gave the Slytherins a second glance at their choice of seating anymore.

“I can think of a couple of people,” Neville grinned around a mouthful of sandwich, staring pointedly at Draco.

Draco snorted, reaching across the table to fill up his plate. “I carefully consider everything thought that comes into my head before speaking it, thank you.’ He sniffed as though offended.

“The hydra hatched the other day,” Harry explained, diverting the conversation before it could descend into the usual good-natured but still dangerous tennis match of insults. “It turns out it speaks Parseltongue, so Neville was able to talk to it.”

Draco raised his eyebrows in mild interest. “Parseltongue? You don’t say.”

“Well, it is closely related to snakes,” Neville pointed out, as though that fact hadn’t been revealed to him only recently too. Harry tucked his chin to hide a grin.

The past few weeks had been a relaxing drift back into what Harry had come to recognise at the end of last term as normalcy. After the party two nights before school resumed, there had been the usual groans of students bemoaning the return to studies and the hasty cram to complete essays to be handed in over the first week.

Draco had seemed a little absentminded throughout the proceedings. He didn’t tell Harry what had been bothering, though Harry had caught him staring at him a couple of times when he thought Harry wasn’t looking. Harry suspected he might have known what it was due to; he dismissed the possibility that it had anything to do with the Vanishing Cabinet or the Room of Requirement as, from what he could remember of the that night, Draco had been almost comfortable with the prospect of confronting the hated object. There was something else, but… surely it was nothing that would trigger such a brooding response. Harry suspected his friend’s attitude probably had at least a little to do with the Vow, and with his parent’s departure, more than anything else. He hadn’t seemed particularly melancholic, as he was prone to becoming in situations involving Voldemort, which was a relief. Contemplative was a more appropriate description. Harry saw that as a good thing, even if it did leave him hanging with curiosity.

They had both visited Narcissa and Lucius once more before the two elder Malfoys departed back to their manor on the first weekend back to school. It had been a subdued affair but no less heartfelt on part of the small family. Harry had felt a little awkward watching the exchange of stiff embraces, gentle pats on the shoulder and pointed staring into one another’s eyes that seemed to speak a thousand words. He’d wondered if he should have excluded himself from the obviously intimate proceedings until Narcissa approached him.

Without ceremony, Narcissa had leant forward and wrapped Harry in an embrace. Harry had nearly frozen at the contact; no one had even been so forward in their contact except Draco and… certain members of his family. Narcissa had been breaching that barrier since he had met her, but even she hadn’t gone so far.

He hardly had time to wonder if he was repulsed or comforted by the gesture, however, for a moment later Narcissa pulled away. Her hand still rested on his shoulder but compared to the embrace it was like a pebble beside a boulder. She had offered a small smile to Harry, fond if a little sad.

“Take care of yourself, Harry dear. I will be expecting you to write to me.”

Harry could only nod, attempting a smile in return. Narcissa had cast a glance behind her towards her son, who spoke quietly to Lucius across the room. Her jaw tightened and she leaned in slightly, dropping her voice. “And please take care of my son. I fear that the coming term may be… hard.”

Harry had never considered to do anything other than offer Draco support but the sincerity of Narcissa’s request had pushed the thought to the forefront. Setting his shoulders, he nodded, smile firming. “Of course, Mrs. Malfoy. I won’t ever let anything happen to him.’

Narcissa smiled, and Harry hoped it wasn’t his imagination that there looked to be a little less sadness in the curl of her lips. “I would never have suspected you to offer anything less.” Her smile quirked in amusement briefly. “And please remember to call me Narcissa, Harry.”

She hadn’t awaited a reply. After Lucius had given Harry his own short but sincere farewell and they had embraced Draco once more, the pair had departed in a crack of Apparation. Harry had drawn Draco quietly back to the castle after that, where they had closeted themselves in Featherwood’s rooms for the rest of the afternoon. Draco hadn’t cried, nor expressed any kind of overt emotion, but Harry suspected it had been a near thing. He almost wished the other boy had.

Whether it was the threat of Voldemort or the residual stress of making the Vow, however, Draco seemed to ease markedly over the next weeks. Without the added foreboding presence of the Vanishing Cabinet – the constant reminder no longer hung over his head and Harry thought that he achieved something akin to peacefulness – an ease that had been absent even when in France settled upon Draco. He still corresponded daily with his parents, and each letter left him with a tight expression and seeking seclusion from his housemates. Thankfully, the same did not seem to apply to Harry; rather, Featherwood’s rooms became something of a sanctuary for the both of them. Draco never did end up going back to the dungeons to sleep. Harry was thankful for the oversight on part of the teachers; he was sure that they were aware of what was going on, but they never questioned it or demanded Draco leave.

What provided the ultimate source of distraction for the Malfoy heir, however, was the newly introduced ‘extra course’ of Apparation. Once a week and held in the Great Hall under the supervision of an expert teacher hired from the Department of Magical Education, the novelty of the situation left all sixth years on a bit of a high. Harry likened it a bit to the jubilation of Muggle teens upon confronting the prospect of driving for the first time.

That was, at least, until the actual first lesson. The novelty sort of wore off after the absolute and completely dismal failed attempt of every single sixth year student. Hermione had been mortified that she had been unable to shift an inch, while Blaise, Neville and Ron loudly expressed their unanimous belief that Apparation was actually a fallacy and that there was no such thing as being able to ‘immediately transport oneself to an alternative location’. Draco didn’t join in with them – it would have been far too incriminating to have professed as much in public – but had confessed him concerns to Harry later in privacy.

“I have to admit, I was sort of excited to Apparate myself. I guess that’s not going to happen any time soon.” He sighed, flopping down upon the length of the couch in Featherwood’s rooms dramatically. “And I had hoped to get it in hand before my birthday so I could get my license straight away.”

Harry plopped himself down on the end of the couch, nudging Draco’s feet aside to make room. “It was only the first lesson, Draco, and your birthday isn’t for nearly six months. There’ll be so many more chances before your birthday –“

“No, it’s hopeless. It’s never going to happen.”

Harry could only smile and shake his head at his friend’s woebegone expression. What was it with wizards and assuming they had to grasp everything the first time? Harry didn’t expect he would be able to manage any time soon. He was still attempting to wrap his head around the possibility of what he deemed to be essentially the same as Muggle science fiction teleportation. Draco always stared blankly at him when he used the term, so he generally kept his miscomprehension to himself.

“I’ve decided. I’m going to get it today.” Draco’s voice was so full of confidence that Harry nearly expected him to Apparate in that instant. Raising his eyes from his lunch, he chewed determinedly on another stick of carrot to bite back a grin.

“Oh, have you worked out how to do it?” Neville asked. He sounded genuinely curious though more than a little skeptical.

Draco shrugged, which was as good as shaking his head. “We’ll have to wait and see, Neville. Never fear, it won’t be more than an hour from now.”

“You have no bloody idea,” Neville grumbled, rolling his eyes. Draco pointedly ignored him.

“Where’s Blaise?” Pansy broke in, leaning into Draco. He hair nearly fell into her plate as she glanced the length of Gryffindor table, as though Blaise would possibly be sitting amongst the first years.

“And Ron,” Hermione added, similarly glancing the length of the table.

“Ron said he was going to have a sleep before lunch.” Neville bit into a sausage before pointing the remaining half towards Pansy. “And Blaise was last seen tagging around with Greengrass. Heading to the dungeons, I think. I don’t know what they were up to, but –“

He didn’t get to finish before Pansy was on her feet and storming out of the Great Hall with startling speed. She somehow made it look both furious and elegant, her robes flaring with a snap before she disappeared through the doors. Neville stared at her open-mouthed, completely oblivious to the scolding glare Hermione directed towards him.

Draco chuckled under his breath and shared a glance with Harry. “Guess we were right.” Harry smiled back at him.

“About what?”

“Oh, don’t trouble your little head, Neville. Leave it to those wiser than yourself.” Neville stared at him blandly but seemed more concerned with eating his lunch than Draco’s cryptic words.

When lunch was finished, they filed out into the Entrance Hall to mill around aimlessly while the Great Hall was prepared for their Apparation lesson. Pansy appeared shortly after with a chastised Blaise in tow, and Ron wandered down the stairs just before one o’clock, yawning and nearly tripping the final step.

As Professor McGonagall swung the wide doors inwards, the sixth year cohort drifted back into the modified Great Hall once more. Hermione darted to the front of the room as usual, Ron and Neville following less eagerly in her wake. Pansy planted Blaise firmly beside her like a mother with her disobedient child, and Draco fell into place beside her, gesturing for Harry to join him.

The same stout, smiling wizard, Wilkie Twycross, who had directed them both times previously clapped his hands for attention when each student had settled with their usual placement before the Apparation hoops. They looked like nothing if not simple hoola-hoops to Harry, but Twycross had professed that they had magical properties of some sort.

“Alright. Quiet please, quiet.” He held up both hands, head tilting slightly as though straining to hear the silence he sought. The buzz of chatter gradually died. “Now, same again, same again. Lets see if we can manage at least one Apparation today, hmm?” That condescending cock of the man’s head made him seem as though he were speaking to students ten years younger and Harry wasn’t surprised to hear Draco grumbling beside him. “Right, now what is it that we remember?”

“Destination… determination… deler...ber…”

It wasn’t the most exuberant recitation they could have given. Deliberation managed to get mangled at the end, but apparently Twycross was used to the enthusiasm of the teenagers for he simply nodded in acceptance and clapped his hands again. “Right. Destination, determination, _deliberation.”_

Well, maybe he isn’t quite so forgiving as he seems, Harry thought, shaking his head. There was a slight hardness to Twycross’s final word, as though he felt he could pierce his students with it to force them to remember.

The lesson didn’t really go much better than usual. For a good hour, no one budged an inch. That was until someone – Harry thought it might have been Susan from Care of Magical Creatures – splinched herself, a rather horrifying sequence of events that seemed to have detached her body from her left leg and teleported it across the room. Harry felt a little queasy at the sight of the limb that crumpled to the ground. At least there wasn’t any blood, and Professor McGonagall shunted her off to the hospital wing in short order.

The most exciting moment, however, was when Draco made good his claim. Harry had almost forgotten his announcement at lunch until, after Susan’s experience, Draco had frowned and turned towards Harry.

“Well, I suppose that settles it.”

“What?”

Draco gestured to the now-empty hoop Susan had ended up in. He didn’t seem daunted or even particularly discomforted by seeing the girl spit neatly into two separate pieces. “At least we’ve seen it done now. I was beginning to suspect that the teachers hadn’t dropped the Anti-Apparation wards on the castle. But now…” He trailed off.

Not ten minutes later, Draco Apparated. There was a riot of enthusiastic congratulations from the Slytherins and more muted from the other houses – except Hermione, Neville and Ron who cheered nearly as excitedly as the Slytherins – and Draco, after a brief and well-concealed wobbliness, seemed to glow with smugness. In fact, he proceeded to Apparate into the next hoop that Twycross directed him towards with only a slight pause.

“How did you do that?” Pansy demanded, planting herself before Draco with hands folding across her chest when he finally sauntered back to his position beside Harry. And if he moved with slightly more measured steps than normal, Harry doubted anyone noticed.

Draco shrugged, rolling his shoulders as though winding down from physical exertion. Harry snorted a quiet chuckle, drawing a grin from his friend. “What can I say, some people just have the talent.”

“That’s not very generous of you, Draco,” Blaise droned. He sounded like he hardly cared but was instead simply satisfied with the fact that Pansy had shifted her reprimanding gaze from him. Draco shrugged again but remained tight-lipped.

Not for particularly long, however. Harry should have guessed his friend wouldn’t be able to suppress his self-satisfaction long enough to keep quiet. Within minutes he was attempting to explain to Harry his own methods.

“I more imagined myself in the process of travelling, rather than directly at the destination. I think Twycross would have a heart attack if I told him I rejected his three D’s.” He smiled wistfully at the thought.

Harry frowned, considering. “That actually makes a bit more sense. I think I was having a bit of trouble with the whole ‘instantaneous’ part of it.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean… I don’t really think it’s possible to _actually_ transport something – or someone – instantaneously. I guess you _could_ see it as just moving an object really fast. There has to be some allowance for the movement of matter through space, otherwise –‘

‘What? Matter? What does matter have to do with anything?‘

‘Matter. I mean the sort of particles matter.” Harry frowned thoughtfully, barely noticing Draco’s questioning gaze. “If it’s more like a very rapid movement rather than disappearance and reappearance, it’s only natural to think that… No, nevermind. I think I understand it a little better.” Harry smiled gratefully at Draco, who had adopted the same expression he always did when Harry spoke of anything even vaguely related to Muggle science – curiosity mixed with bafflement and a touch of frustration. It was a little sad, really. Draco seemed to absorb anything Harry offered of science, even the most basic theory, that wizards in general seemed to deem unimportant or irrelevant to the magical world. _Maybe we should talk about it a little bit more later. He’d probably enjoy himself._

For whatever reason, whether it was Draco’s explanation or Harry’s own alternative understanding, he was able to Apparate on his next attempt. It was one of the most uncomfortable experiences with magic Harry had ever undergone. The claustrophobia, however brief, of squeezing through what Harry could only assume was a sort of tunnel through space, accompanied by the crushing breathlessness was unnerving enough to prevent him from eagerly attempting another Apparation.

Draco beamed at him, accepting Harry’s public display of gratitude as his due, though seemed to understand entirely too well why Harry wasn’t keen for a repeat performance. Pansy shifted her scolding to envelope Harry too and Hermione looked on longingly from across the hall before forsaking her position at the front of the room in an attempt to add her own drilling of questions to the mix. She did so with far less heat than Pansy, though that in itself wasn’t a particularly significant; anyone would be less intense than Pansy.

It didn’t last long, however. Like a dam that had cracked with Draco’s first leap, a gradually increasing trickle of students began to take stumbling steps through simple jumps. Twycross was ecstatic, preaching of the ‘breakthrough at last!’ and assuring all of the students of their near future in extending their skills to Apparating to coordinates or even pictographic images. Harry wasn’t entirely sure how that worked; it was one thing to Apparate to a sight one could see, even to move to a place visited before, but to propel oneself to a site never seen before based on coordinates? On a picture? It seemed a little far-fetched even for the Wizarding world, but he didn’t object. Harry knew exactly what the explanation for such a possibility was and he’d grown rather exasperated with the single-word answer for everything.

Towards the end of the session – after which Hermione had finally managed her first Apparation alongside nearly a half a dozen other classmates. – Draco was unexpectedly called to the back of the room by the sudden appearance of Professor Snape. Draco actually looked thankful for the interruption of Pansy’s fuming, and had nearly run in his haste to escape her bubbling temper.

“Wonder what he wants,” Neville muttered, scowling towards the Defense professor as the hook-nosed man exchanged quiet words with Draco. There was no love lost between the Gryffindor and the Head of Slytherin, and though Harry didn’t know exactly where it came from he could accept it accordingly. Snape obviously didn’t like Neville, so it was natural that the feeling would be mutual.

Besides, Harry was more focused on Draco as the boy’s face blanked then paled marginally, his jaw clenching alongside his fists. They conversed for a moment later before Snape urged Draco from the room. Draco paused, hesitant, as though reluctant to go where Snape had directed, until he finally strode from the Great Hall, the bat-like Defense professor following closely behind.

 _I wonder what that was about. Something to do with the Vow of Mutualism? With Voldemort and the Death Eaters?_ Harry frowned, gnawing his lip in worry. Dumbledore had said he would protect Draco. Surely that didn’t entail some sort of mission on the Slytherin boy’s part? Harry felt his gut clench uncomfortably alongside that flicker of warm anger that only ever seemed to arise when Draco was being pushed into doing something irrational. He managed to quell the emotion with difficulty.

Yet even when Harry accompanied Pansy and Blaise into a single period of potions that afternoon, Draco had not returned. Professor Slughorn didn’t comment, simply pronouncing excitedly about the class’s progression into Compound Potions that they would begin that week. Harry wasn’t overly fond of the man – he was a bit too flighty, not to mention fond of patting students enthusiastically on the shoulder, for him to be entirely comfortable in the dimly lit rooms – and the complete lack of care at Draco’s absence only irked him further.

 _He’s probably been informed of his absence already,_ Harry attempted to rationalize, but even that thought niggled at him persistently. If the teachers knew something, could he maybe ask?

Halfway through the class, as Professor Slughorn was just directing the blackboard duster to wipe the last of the theory from the board, the door opened and Professor Snape announced without ceremony that he required Pansy and Blaise momentarily. Slughorn smiled his blissfully ignorant smile and waved the two Slytherins from the room. Harry stared blankly at the door after they had left, the clenching in his stomach tightening almost painfully. Something is wrong. Something with Draco. I know it, but I just don’t know what. It was so frustrating.

He didn’t have long to work himself into a fit, however, for the door had barely been closed for a minute before it swung inwards once more. Slughorn, paused in the process of settling himself into his chair and sighed tiredly.

“Yes, Professor Snape? Is there something more I can help you with? Anymore students you wish to steal?”

Though Slughorn smiled as though it was a long-standing joke, the Defense professor only stared back flatly. He was silent for just long enough to elicit an uncertain squirm from his fellow teacher before speaking.

“I require Mr. Potter’s assistance, Professor. If you would be so kind.”

Harry didn’t need telling twice. He barely saw Slughorn nod and scan the room for Harry, as though even after nearly half a year he didn’t recognise his students quite as accurately as was probably deemed appropriate. Harry left his books and bag at the table and nearly ran to the door, slipping past Snape who propped open the door like a silent usher and closed it with unnecessary force right on Harry’s heels.

Before Harry got the chance to even open his mouth, Snape was speaking. “Potter, Miss Parkinson and Mr. Zabini have informed me that you could provide adequate assistance for Mr. Malfoy. You will accompany me.” And just like that, with no further explanation, the man turned on his heel and swept down the corridor, robes billowing impressively behind him like a pair of wings.

Picking up his own heels and nearly jogging alongside Blaise and Pansy to keep up, Harry frowned questioningly at his friends. “What’s wrong? What’s going on?”

Pansy looked slightly pale and swallowed nervously. “Snape wouldn’t tell us. Only that Draco needed to see his friends because he had gotten some bad news.”

“Only, it didn’t sound like bad news”’ Blaise was nearly as pale as Pansy, an admirable feat given his darker complexion. “Sounded like, I don’t know, the Minister for Magic had been shot or something horrendous like that.”

“What does he need us for?”

Pansy shrugged awkwardly as she half-trotted to keep up with Snape. “I’m not sure exactly, but when he said Draco needed help with something I told him that you were probably the closest to him and would likely be able to help with any problems he had as much as anyone else.” She paused, face wrinkling worriedly. “Was I wrong?”

Harry clenched his jaw, shaking his head. “No, I’m glad. Thanks, Pansy.” _Why did Snape have to be so mysterious? Wouldn’t it have just been easier to_ tell _them?_ But then the image of Snape’s face flickered into his head and he noted the hard lines of tension and tightening of eyes that he had barely registered before. Was Snape… worried?

Never having been to the Head of Slytherin’s office, Harry only realised when he nearly ran into the professor’s back that they had arrived. Snape paused for a moment before the dark closed door, seemed to steel himself, and pushed it open and stepped inside. Harry and his friends exchanged apprehensive glances before following.

It turned out that it wasn’t even Snape’s office they had been led to but rather his private rooms. Harry noted distractedly that they were nearly identical to Featherwood’s in terms of structure, if not in decoration. Three rooms, though two had closed doors that likely to the bedroom and bathroom, and yet pervading through it all was a very definite ‘Snape’ atmosphere. Whether it was the darkness of the rooms, of the decorations – solely in black, silver and green – or the assortment of tomes, potions ingredients scattered across the table before the couches, or the cauldron that stood empty over an artificial fire flickering green, the entire room seemed to embody the Defense professor. Harry thought detachedly that it was interesting that the emphasis still rested upon potions; Draco had told him that Snape had been the potions professor until that year when he had taken on the role of Defense Against the Dark Arts professor instead, but it was still surprising that he embraced the subject that was not his primary focus anymore.

Stepping further into the room and past the Professor, who seemed to be attempting to camouflage into the wall of the sitting room, Harry noticed Draco for the first time. His breath caught and he struggled to swallow past a sudden dryness in his mouth. Draco looked terrible.

If anyone else had seen him, Harry supposed it may have easily been overlooked as tiredness. Or perhaps a mild sorrow. He was pale, and his eyes seemed faintly sunken. He stared blankly into the flickering flames of the fire crackling with ignorant bliss before him, as though he were watching a Muggle television.

Yet to Harry, who had become so used to reading his friend’s every expression, he looked on the verge of falling apart. There was rigidity to his face that looked on the verge of spasming for its tightness. His lips had thinned minutely, taken on a shade that wasn’t immediately apparent in the darkness of the room but upon closer study looked nearly bloodless. Lines were faintly visible on his forehead and the blankness that glassed his eyes disappeared periodically to reveal something bordering on panic.

Without realizing it, Harry started forwards and nearly fell to his knees beside his Draco. Staring up into his face, he sought to meet his friend’s eyes, fingers fumbling to grasp hands that were clenched so tightly Harry wondered how he hadn’t broken his knuckles.

“Draco? Draco, can you hear me?”

Draco didn’t respond. Harry didn’t think he even heard him. Panic building within him, Harry glanced towards Snape over his shoulder. Pansy and Blaise were frozen beside the man, worry writ across their faces, but Harry barely noticed. “What happened?”

Snape closed his eyes briefly, jaw tightening, before he spoke. “There was an… incident. With the Dark Lord. Something of a tragedy.” Pansy uttered a squeak and Blaise looked like he was going to be sick.

“You _sent_ him –?!”

“No, foolish boy, Draco was not sent anywhere.” Snape’s lip curled, but Harry didn’t feel the slightest urge to cringe like he usually did. His entire focus was upon Draco, the clenched fists cradled in his hands, and the man who struggled with an explanation.

“Then what –?“

“It was not him that was injured.”

The words seemed to ring in an echo through the room. In that instant, though his expression barely changed, Harry got the impression that Snape was fighting back an overwhelming wave of sorrow and regret.

_Oh no… Oh, please no…_

Easing himself closer to Draco, he raised his hands onto either side of his friend’s head. Tilting his chin, Harry ran a thumb over his smooth jaw, the angular bones of his cheeks. They felt oddly cold.

“Draco?” Still no reply, but for a moment Draco’s eyes flickered towards him. The blankness dropped slightly and the pain that took its place was horrifying. Harry couldn’t speak.

Not that it mattered. Draco seemed to be clawing his way towards resurfacing from whatever sea of turmoil had sucked him beneath its roiling waves. Harry wasn’t sure if that was a good thing or not; Draco’s pale jaw trembled slightly, his eyes tightening and the lines on his brow deepening. Harry felt more than saw tight fingers grasp his wrists like a lifeline. He didn’t break his gaze from Draco’s for an instant.

“Harry…”

Harry was only faintly aware of Snape, Blaise and Pansy disappearing from the room. He couldn’t bring himself to turn from Draco; his friend seemed posed on the brink of speaking, lips trembling almost violently. He stroked his thumbs slowly, softly, over his cheekbones.

_Please no, don’t let it be… Anything but that, please…_

“Harry, my father… Father, he’s dead, Harry. And Mother…”

Draco shattered. It was all Harry could do to catch and cradle the fallen pieces.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Thank you my wonderful commenters!! It's lovely to hear from you, even better to see some familiar faces (or, well, names). I hope you enjoyed the chapter and hope to hear thoughts from anyone who has a moment to drop a word.


	20. Heartbroken

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: this chapter contains references to violence and torture. It's only brief and vague, but tread carefully if that worries you.

Draco sat in a daze. Everything seemed disjointed, slightly splintered, as though he were peering at a reflection in a broken mirror whose pieces didn’t quite fit together anymore. Wherever he hazily turned his glance around the shadowed recesses of the dark rooms, the colours seemed just slightly too bright yet oddly washed out as though even brightened the life had been drawn from the world.

Swallowing, Draco clenched Harry’s hand more firmly in his own. He hadn’t let go since his friend had drawn him from his stunned stasis. The first thing Draco had seen after Dumbledore’s words had filtered into his ears was Harry’s face, Harry’s eyes swimming with softness and gentleness and sympathy, and it had undone him. He had never cried so hard in his entire life.

_Gone. My father is gone… He’s dead, and I’ll never see him again… And Mother, what will happen to her? Will she die too? I can’t lose them both, I can’t…_

It had been too much for him, too overwhelming. His parents, his beloved parents… his family was broken.

_“Skilled Legilimens that your mother was,” Draco had flinched at the headmaster’s use of the past tense, but understanding hadn’t quite settled enough for him to feel anything more yet, “your father was not. I can only assume, as there is no way to be certain, that he read Lucius’ mind and learned of the change in allegiance.”_

_Dumbledore had bowed his head, sadness ageing the man in a way that Draco had never thought he would bare witness to. “I am so sorry, my boy.”_

_“What… what do you mean? I don’t…” Draco’s voice had been barely a whisper, hoarse and cracking._

_“Draco, your father… your mother…”_

Cringing as the words played into his mind once more, Draco felt a shudder ripple down his spine. How was this possible? How had it happened? Draco had assumed they would be safe when they went to Dumbledore, when they’d sided with the light. How had he been so impossibly wrong?

Biting back another sob, Draco closed his eyes. _I was offered protection, and he gave it to me. Why couldn’t he protect them too?_

And in a thought even louder than that: It’s all my fault. It’s my fault my parents are… He couldn’t even think it. It hurt too much. Like a Cutting Hex had ripped open his chest, leaving his heart to claw and struggle its way from the gaping cavity. _My fault… all my fault…_

“No, it is not.”

It took a moment for the words to register; Draco hadn’t even realised he’d spoken his thoughts aloud. With rapid blinks, he turned towards Harry, seated on the couch beside him and staring at him with a fierce intensity that Draco had never seen before. Not in shy, quiet unobtrusive Harry. It was determination, and strength, and… something Draco had only ever seen in his parents’ eyes before: protectiveness.

“Draco, this is _not_ your fault. There is only one person to blame for what has happened; there has only ever been one person. Don’t even consider trying to shoulder the blame for something that is _not your fault_.”

Harry spoke with such force that Draco almost felt himself believe him. That wailing voice in the back of his mind resolutely denied the suggestion, but the echoing ring of Harry’s words fought valiantly to smother it.

“But if I hadn’t…”

“What? Sought protection? Tried to save yourself and rely upon the only person who could offer anything that even remotely gave you a chance to survive?”

“If I had fixed the Cabinet… If I had done more…”

Harry grasped his hand more firmly, demandingly, and Draco turned sore, puffy eyes towards him. “And what? Sentenced every person in this school to their deaths? Committed atrocities equal to those the Death Eaters have done? You’ve read the papers as well as I have, Draco. You’re not the sort of person who would ever do such things.”

He knew Harry was right. He wasn’t a Death Eater at heart; he had never been. It was a role, a duty, thrust upon him due to circumstance. Something unavoidable, like the growing up, or following in his father’s footsteps as the Malfoy heir. _But it doesn’t help, it doesn’t alleviate the guilt… the horror… It doesn’t stop it from hurting._

As though he could see the hurt like a physical injury, Harry seemed to dampen his ferocity and let sympathy take its place. Sighing, he looped his free hand around Draco’s neck and pulled him down until his forehead pressed against Harry’s shoulder. It was a little awkward, the position a little uncomfortable, but Draco couldn’t help melting into the bony support of his friend’s embrace.

_It hurts… it hurts so much…_

Harry had taken to gently stroking Draco’s hair. It was the same soft caresses that Draco had seen when his mother touched Harry’s head.. The same as the touches she used to stroke him with in his childhood.

_Will she ever again? Why did I ever tell her to stop?_

The tears that welled up stung as they spilled over his eyelids. He hadn’t realised he even had enough left within him to cry.

It was an indefinite time later that they finally slowed. Slowed, then stopped. Draco felt drained, exhausted, yet he doubted he would ever sleep again. It was only when he raised his head slightly from Harry’s shoulder that he realised someone had entered the room.

 _Snape’s quarters_ , he realised absently. He didn’t even remember entering them. Of course it would be Snape who was standing in his own rooms.

Apparently noticing that Draco had become aware of his presence, Snape swept quietly forward to the side of the couch. There must have been at least a slight sound of shoes on hard wooden floor, for Harry whipped his head towards him an instant later. Snape barely spared him a glance, however. His eyes were trained on Draco.

Without preemption, Snape pulled a small glass orb from his pocket. It looked like a colourless marble, only the size of a clenched fist. He held it out to Draco who reached out hesitantly and accepted it. His hands shook slightly.

“The portkey will take you straight to St. Mungos’ Entrance Hall. I apologise for the delay in getting it to you; your own safety had to be considered, and Aurors posted in place for your arrival at the hospital. We are unsure of the degree to which the Dark Lord may pursue you as of yet. There can never be too many precautions.”

“Hospital?” Harry’s voice had resumed its usual quietness, tone absent of the intensity it had held before.

Snape glanced towards him, regarding him for slightly longer this time as he spoke. “Narcissa arrived at St. Mungos in a critical condition. It was uncertain she would survive the night. However, due to the skill and expertise of the Mediwizards and witches on hand…”

Draco didn’t hear the rest. He hadn’t given himself the chance to hope, not after beholding the saddened expression on Dumbledore’s face as he informed him that his mother was teetering on the verge of oblivion.

A tidal wave of relief gripped him, flooding through him like the effects of a strong Pepper-Up potion. His chest was still wrapped in a vice, shrouded in an insuppressible longing for his father, a grief for everything he had lost, but the relief he felt over his mother’s survival enabled him to breath properly for the first time since Dumbledore had spoken to him.

“She’s alive…”

Snape paused at the interruption, turning his attention towards Draco. He watched as his godfather clenched his jaw and nodded shortly. “She is.”

“Thank the Gods.” Tears welled up once more, but Draco fought to keep them from spilling.

“Draco, you must be aware. Your mother is in a very fragile state. She has only just been stabilized enough that –“

“But she’s alive, isn’t she?”

“Yes, she is alive. However, the trauma she has undergone… We do not yet know the extent of the damage. She is very weak, and very fragile. While she is physically stable, her mind is, as of yet, not.”

Draco fought to swallow the bile that rose in his throat. _Her mind is not stable? What does that even mean? She’ll survive, though, right? She’s not going to die too? She won’t leave me, she can’t leave me too, she can’t, she can’t…_

“We can visit her, though?” Harry’s voice broke through the soft chanting in his head. _Visit? Yes, I could visit, I will visit her, I have to see her!_

Frowning, Snape shifted his stare to Harry once more. “Draco has received permission to visit her –“

“And I will go with him, sir. Provided the portkey is capable of transporting us both.” Mellow as it was, Harry’s tone brooked no argument. Even in his half-maddened state, Draco had to admire his friend’s capacity to stand up to Snape. Draco had known the man for years and still felt the urge to cower from him more often than not.

For whatever reason, Snape didn’t dispute the claim. Maybe he just accepted the fact that he would get nowhere with further argument and had somewhere else he’d rather be. He nodded shortly once more before speaking. He directed his words to Harry, though, rather than Draco, as though he had more faith in Harry to abide by his directions. Draco couldn’t even summon the energy to be disgruntled by the fact.

“You will meet two Aurors upon arrival. They will recognise Draco, at least. Though St. Mungo’s in warded to protect the safety of its patients from external attacks, so Narcissa is protected, the same cannot be said for you both as merely visitors.” Snape’s eyes stared penetratingly at Harry, and Harry nodded slowly in acknowledgement. “You are to remain in their company throughout your visitation, until you return back to Hogwarts.”

“Of course, sir.”

Snape nodded his head again curtly, folding his arms into the sleeves of his robes. He shifted his gaze to Draco, who simply stared back at him in a haze of overpowering and confusing emotion. “Whenever you are ready, then.”

For some reason, Draco couldn’t find it within himself to speak the intonation that would transport them to the hospital. His relief was coupled with a newly kindled and rapidly growing fear. _Mother is alright, isn’t she? What if she has been tortured irreparably, or crippled, or her memories tampered with?_ The thought caused him to grip the glass orb so tightly his fingernails squeaked on the buffered surface.

Harry took pity on his hesitancy. Enclosing fingers tightening around Draco’s once more, he met his gaze and offered a small smile. “Are you ready?’

Draco drew a deep breath, closing his eyes and squeezing them tightly. He wasn’t sure if he was ready, but he certainly wasn’t going to wait any longer than he had to. It had nearly killed him when Dumbledore had said he would be unable to visit the hospital until his safety could be assured.

With a clipped nod, he opened his eyes. “Yes.” His words were more of a croak than a whisper.

Pausing for a moment as though discerning the truth of Draco’s words, Harry nodded, turned his attention to the portkey and muttered _‘Portus’._ The redundant thought that the word could have been the first verbalization of a spell he’d done in weeks passed through Draco’s mind in the split second before the magic set in.

The tug in his belly lurched him from the couch into blinding swirls of motion, a dizzying tunnel that he barely had time to feel queasy from before his feet slammed into hard floor and he was staggering to steady himself. Harry stumbled similarly, and for a moment the memory of their arrival in Hogsmeade barely three weeks ago resurfaced. A sharp pang of longing, of pain, speared through Draco and he had to struggle to shoulder it aside.

 _No, not now. I cannot feel now, I can’t let it out. For he was abruptly in public once more._ And if there was one thing a Malfoy learnt, it was that ones mask should always be firmly affixed when in public.

His father had taught him that.

Hardening his features, ignoring the remaining puffiness in his eyes that he only detachedly hoped that the strangers around him would overlook, Draco straightened his spine and cast a quick glance around himself. The Entrance Hall of St. Mungo’s was hardly worth commenting on; it had that glowing whiteness of public facilities that was only faintly offset by patterned carpet. A service desk with a rather bored looking witch seated behind it was the only object in the large expanse of space other than a potted vase in the far corner that looked like it had seen better days and a plump couch to the left of the front doors. On either side of the service desk, twin sets of staircases extended a dozen steps before flattening and trailing into the unseen distance. Draco had only ever been to St. Mungo’s once before, when he was a child and had suffered from a bout of magical fever. The place didn’t look like it had changed an ounce. It was oddly reassuring.

A faint tugging on his fingers drew his attention from his surroundings. Glancing down towards the glass orb still clutched tightly in his hand, Draco’s eyes rose to behold the request in Harry’s gaze. With a shrug, he forsook the portkey into Harry’s care. The dark-haired boy slipped it into his pocket awkwardly – it was just slightly too big – before lacing his fingers back into Draco’s.

He should have pulled his hand away. It was improper, really, and even though Draco had on several instances held his friend’s hand in public, he knew his parents would not have entirely approved. Yet in that moment, that feeling of cool skin and slender fingers was the only thing that kept his shoulders from trembling. He wouldn’t let it go for the world.

“Draco Malfoy?”

Turning at the sound of his name, Draco was locked eyes with a tall, dark-haired woman across the foyer. He didn’t recognise her, but that was hardly surprising. He doubted he would recognise any Auror that was likely to be assigned to him, regardless of the fact that he was supposed to be a member of the Order. Or under their protection, at least.

The woman strode across the wide expanse of empty space. She was one of only four milling individuals in the Entrance Hall, and one other, a man, appeared to be her companion. They made an odd couple, he as short and stout as she was tall and almost woodenly rigid. She stepped straight towards Draco and nodded with the same woodenness.

“Emmaline Vince, Mr. Malfoy. I am here to accompany you on your visit. This is Dedalus Diggle, my partner for the moment.” She gestured towards the stout wizard who stepped forward at his name, nodding his head with a bob that nearly unseated the hat atop his head. His absent fiddling with his greying beard was at odds to Vince’s cool composure. Draco felt more comfortable with the woman; she steadiness seemed to encourage his own.

Nodding, he opened his mouth to reply. It took two attempts; his voice seemed to have settled itself somewhere down in the vicinity of his chest. “Thank you. Your assistance is appreciated.”

Vince nodded in turn before shifting her gaze towards Harry. Harry didn’t even appear to notice; he seemed more concerned with staring at the remaining occupants of the hall, a woman dressed in a hospital gown and man patting her comfortingly on the back and murmuring inaudibly into her ear. Vince raised an eyebrow questioningly towards Draco.

“My friend, Harry. He’s just here to…” He trailed off. It wasn’t like he was going to tell the Aurors the truth, that he sorely needed the support of a friend. No, not just a friend. Harry would always be more than that. And in that moment, Draco sorely needed Harry.

Not that Vince seemed to need an explanation. Her eyes dropped briefly towards their still-clasped hands and surprisingly softened slightly. “Of course.” A glance towards Diggle and she gestured towards the service desk. “Shall we?”

The bored witch directed them up three levels and down a rabbit warren of white corridors to Critical Care, an area that as it turned out was abuzz with activity and nearly full to bursting with patients, carers and medi-staff. Draco had to steel himself for a moment when he set foot into the ward from the sparsely filled hallways. The moans of feeble patients and demands for assistance rung like the desolate cries of a ghoul through the sterile halls.

 _My mother is in there_. It didn’t seem right. The last time Draco had seen his mother she had been as strong and capable as ever. More, for he had needed her to be as he whispered his fears into her shoulder before she finally took her leave. She wasn’t the same as these patients. He struggled not to stare as a bed was levitated past, carrying a wizard so wrapped in bandages that barely an inch of skin was visible.

 _Except that she is. What… has happened to her?_ The pain was back, the ache in his chest that bespoke a creature attempting to wrench his lungs out returned. And more than that. There was fear. What would he find? What if he couldn’t handle what he saw?

He would forever be thankful that Harry insisted upon accompanying him. As Vince and Diggle awaited his movement, Harry saw immediately that he wouldn’t be able to manage it himself. He was struggle enough to ensure that he remained composed at the sight of the medi-wizards and witches that whipped past in an efficient frenzy. That same composure didn’t extend to urging his legs into motion.

Another tug on his hand, however, and Harry was drawing him into the white-walled ward. Their shoes rung as they moved from carpet to clean tiles, similarly white and reflecting the pale magical lighting that illuminated the interior of the hospital; no candles were to be seen inside the immaculate halls.

The clicking of four pairs of shoes was all that accompanied them as they passed room after room. Three hundred and ten… three hundred and eleven… three hundred and twelve… Most doors were closed, but those that were open depicted scenes confronting enough that Draco immediately deflected his gaze.

Three hundred and seventeen… three hundred and eighteen…

They stopped outside the door. It was closed, like so many of the others, and for the first time Draco wished it was open, even if only a little. He was having difficulty breathing again, and only just managed to keep his struggle from playing out over his face. What would he find behind that door? His mother so wrapped in bandages as to be unrecognizable? A nattering mad-woman like the one he had caught a glimpse of five doors down? He couldn’t lift his hand to the door handle, couldn’t move an inch.

Vince, for all her professionalism, seemed to perceive his struggle. Hesitating only slightly, she reached forwards and eased the door open. When Draco made no move to step inside, she led the way. The dimness of the room seemed to seep into the corridor.

“Draco?”

Struggling to turn his gaze from the foreboding entry, Draco met Harry’s eyes. They were steady yet soft, in a way that only he seemed able to express. “I don’t know if I…” He trailed off, conscious of Diggle standing not two feet behind him and very obviously averting his gaze.

“You don’t have to,” Harry murmured, shrugging casually as if they were discussion nothing so much as a shopping venture and Draco had professed his desire to by-pass a particular store. “No one is forcing you to. But Draco, don’t forego the opportunity if you think you’ll regret it.”

Swallowing, Draco nodded. He would regret it. He knew. But why was it so hard? Just one step, one single step into the room that he couldn’t even force himself to properly peer into.

Harry made up his mind for him. Stepping forwards, he walked slowly through the doorway. Draco either had to follow his lead or let go of his friend’s hand, and he would never do the latter. So his sunk into the darkness of the room.

It was a simple set up, and rather gloomy with the curtains pulled across a double window. A simple single armchair was wedged in one corner of the little room beside a square table that held a water pitcher, foam cups and a collection of yellowing magazines Draco didn’t care to identify. A door to the left of the entrance held a simple yet clean bathroom, and the only other item in the room was the bed. Plain yet sturdy, it wasn’t a four-poster yet boasted curtains that hung limply tied back at the headboard.

His mother lay still upon the thin mattress.

She wasn’t covered in bandages. She didn’t possess a multitude of burns of scars, and her limbs were not twisted like those of a cripple. Yet still, Draco felt as though a solid weight crushed his chest, squeezing and denying him a whisper of breath. No, she wasn’t crippled, but she looked so ill it brought those unavoidable, hot tears to his eyes once more. Her skin was waxen and faintly yellow, lips chapped and cheeks hollow beneath closed eyes and black smudges. Her hair looked as though someone had attempted to tidy it, but still hung limply and messily, half tangled. Her arms, folded atop one another over the sheets covering her belly, twitched even in sleep, fingers picking slightly as though seeking to peel the skin from her own wrists.

If he hadn’t been taught so well, Draco would have choked. What happened to her? How could she have been so…

No, don’t think about it. She wasn’t dead; at least she wasn’t dead. And she didn’t appear injured, at least physically. At least externally. Not like –‘

No, don’t think about him. It was hard; every memory, every recollection of the support of his father was clamoring for attention, but… _You can’t think about him, not now._ _Mother is here, she is alive. It is better than you had feared. Anything is better than you had feared._

Taking an unsteady step forwards, tugging Harry along with him, Draco knelt slowly onto the ground at her bedside. The hardness of the floor was painful even through his robes, but he ignored the slight discomfort. With a hand that only faintly trembled, he reached out and stroked his fingers gently down his mother’s arm. She flinched slightly in her sleep.

_She’s alive… she’s alive… she’s alive…_

It was a constant chant. He had to keep reminding himself. And gradually, despite the pain that still seized his chest, relief gradually grew once to counteract his horror, fighting for attention.

_She’s alive… that’s all that matters…_

“You are Mr. Draco Malfoy?”

An unfamiliar voice caused him to glance towards the door. A plump mediwitch, dressed in the customary set green robes and carrying a sheaf of papers upon a clipboard, filled the doorway. A smile was set upon her face, but it was purely professional.

Nodding, Draco rose slowly to his feet. He was only faintly aware of Vince and Diggle easing themselves towards him slightly. He wondered if they perceived the woman as a threat or if it was purely a reflexive response. “Yes?”

The smile widened slightly, and gained a modicum of warmth. “A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Malfoy. My name is Amanda Goodwillow. I have been responsible for your mother’s care since her admittance three days ago.” She offered another soft smile. “I am pleased you were able to come so quickly. I have informed your temporary guardian of your mother’s status, but I always feel it’s best to tell the family directly.”

Draco nodded, pondering distractedly for a moment the identity of his temporary guardian. Probably Dumbledore. The headmaster was the most likely choice, given the circumstances. “Please. What can you tell me?”

The witch glanced towards his mother, lips quirking slightly. “Perhaps you would prefer to relocate -? No, no, it’s fine, it is unnecessary.” She hastily revised her statement as Draco opened his mouth to object, frowning. “I can understand your reluctance to leave. No matter.”

Dropping her gaze to the papers in her hands, she cleared her throat. She paused, peering warily at Draco for a moment as though considering discontinuing her words once more. As Draco deepened his frown, however, she spoke. “Your mother is suffering from severe magical exhaustion and mental instability, a result of repeated exposure to uninhibited Legilimens attack.” She flipped a page, eyes still fastened to the written words scrawled on the paper. Draco was grateful for the fact; he didn’t know how well he was managing to keep his poker face. He couldn’t even tell if he was still frowning. “The nerve damage suggests repeated use of a psychological torture curse,” she paused, lifting her gaze. “I am sorry. If my bluntness is trying for you, please inform me.”

Draco shook his head, swallowing thickly, and gestured for her to continue. She pinned him with a stare for a moment before continuing. “My best guess would be repeated exposure to the Cruciatus Curse – the nerve damage is fairly easy to discern – but there is muscular damage and even some microscopic bone deterioration that suggests a compilation of additional curses. Likely a Brittleness Hex and a Seizing Curse, enhanced with a Target Charm. The pain receptors are slightly strained, but not overtly. If she was a victim of such, she has come out the other side of it with remarkably fortunate.”

Draco bit back on the urge to growl at the woman. Fortune? What about the situation was fortunate? He was saved, however, from potentially launching himself at the mediwitch by a faint mumbling behind him. Spinning hastily, he strode back to his mother’s side, dropping to the floor once more. Harry’s fingers fell from his own as he grasped his mother’s in both hands.

“Mother? Mother, can you hear me?”

“She hasn’t woken fully yet, Mr. Malfoy. Psychological assaults are often the longest in recovery.” Goodwillow’s voice held the same kind professionalism as her initial smile. She sighed regretfully. “So many victims of Death Eater attacks these days. Your mother is my third patient in as many weeks.”

Barely hearing her, Draco leant forward towards his mother. Her eyelids twitched slightly as her eyes rolled, fluttering as though struggling to open. A frown wrinkled her brow and, accompanied as it was by another feeble moan, he feared she was in pain. He didn’t have a chance to ask the mediwitch, however, as a moment later her eyelids peeled open.

“Mother?”

Blinking rapidly, his mother seemed to be wrestling herself into consciousness. Her eyes were glassy from Draco could see of them and the whites tinged a faint, unhealthy yellow. Her pupils were contracted so small that Draco doubted she actually perceived anything around herself.

“Mother? Can you hear me?”

At the sound of his voice, his mother rocked her head limply towards him. The flatness of the gaze she turned upon him nearly caused him to sob. There was not a glimmer of recognition.

Reaching up, he stroked a hand over her forehead. It was warm, unnaturally so, and faintly sweaty. He tried not to gasp when she flinched from the touch.

“Mother, are you –?“

Her head rocked towards him once more but this time there was a glimmer of awareness in her gaze. Her pupils expanded and contracted, as though at the mercy of rapid Enlarging and Shrinking Charms, and this time he flinched himself when she paused in tossing her head to snarl at him.

“Don’t… touch… him… bastard…”

Her voice was wild, animalistic, even though it was barely a hoarse whisper. Her breaths came in pants. With her lips curled back, she looked like a cornered wolf. Draco had never seen his mother like that before and he was frozen in shock. He barely registered the anxious twittering of Goodwillow behind him as she fussed to reassure them that it wasn’t anything to become upset about. That such had happened before.

A moment later, the snarl slipped from her face and her eyes slipped shut. She seemed to struggle for a moment to maintain wakefulness, but rapidly lost the battle and sunk into limp oblivion. This time, however, her stillness didn’t look as peaceful as the restfulness of a recovering victim. He could almost see the turmoil writhing beneath her skin.

“Mr. Malfoy…”

It was too close in the room. Too dark, and there were too many people for such a small space. Draco felt like the collar of his shirt had abruptly constricted, his robes becoming too warm and his shoes too tight.

_I have to get out of here._

He didn’t pause to thank the medi-witch. Didn’t stop to inform Vince and Diggle of his departure. He couldn’t even wait to tell Harry that he needed – needed – to escape the room.

He didn’t quite run, but it was a near thing.

* * *

Harry felt his heart ache in pain as he watched his friend disappear from the room with such speed it was almost as though he had Apparated. He didn’t hear Goodwillow’s sympathetic words as she informed Emmaline and Dedalus that ‘seeing a loved one in such a state was often quite traumatic for families’.

Draco had been holding himself together so admirably. Harry had oddly proud and a little awed; he knew from past experience that Draco possessed the ability to make himself completely devoid of expression, but what he’d managed in the last twenty-four hours seemed as though it were on a whole new level. He had entered the hospital, greeted the Aurors and proceeded to Narcissa’s room as though it were a routine visit. One could have even overlooked the slight redness of his eyes for the way he comported himself. Even his hesitancy in entering the room had not appeared particularly noteworthy. Simply a moment to clear his head before entering. And enter he did, with only slight encouragement.

As soon as Narcissa had awoken, Harry had known Draco would be not be able to hold himself together much longer. It had been like a blow to the gut for Harry, to see the woman he had come to care for so deeply appear so damaged. He could hardly even contemplate how hard it must have been for Draco.

Even composed as he had been, Harry knew his friend better; it wasn’t even because he had witnessed Draco’s display of grief not an hour beforehand and knew what he managed to only just keep hidden. He could see the difficulty growing, manifesting, like a sentient beast and struggling against the restraints Draco impressed upon it. Then Narcissa had snarled and Harry had been sure. He had just been too slow to offer his friend comfort before he had darted from the room.

I can’t leave him alone. Not after that. It was the only thought that passed through Harry’s head before he was hastening through the door after Draco. Emmaline was right on his tail – ever the Auror, Draco was under her protection, so he should have expected as much – while Dedalus remained to convey his thanks to the doctor and express his regrets that they weren’t staying longer.

Running along the corridor of the Critical Care ward, Harry dodged around doctors and what he assumed were nurses, scanning ahead of him for a sight of Draco and struggling to suppress his urge to run. The blonde was just disappearing around a distant corner; he wasn’t running, but still maintained an admirable speed. Harry hastened his own.

Draco actually made it the whole way back to the foyer before Harry managed to catch a hold of him. Grasping his arm in a tight grip, Harry swung himself in front of his friend, planting another hand on his chest to stop him in his tracks. Draco’s face was a frozen mask, as pale and emotionless as a carved statue. He didn’t even seem to realise it was Harry who stood before him until he blinked rapidly and met his gaze.

“Draco. Stop.”

Draco flinched at his words. Harry sighed regretfully; he hadn’t meant it to sound like a reprimand. He just didn’t think that his friend would respond well to choice right now. Stepping closer to him, he met Draco’s eyes squarely and held them fast.

“Calm down. Just breathe. It’s alright. _She’s_ alright. She will get better.”

For a moment, Draco didn’t respond. Harry continued a soothing litany of encouraging words, soft and quiet, and eventually Draco drew in a ragged breath. He seemed to sag rather than inflate with the air; his shoulders slumped and the stillness of his face slipped into something that bordered on heartbroken. Or maybe it was, and Harry just wasn’t familiar with the expression.

“She was… she…”

“I know. But it’s alright. She will get better. She will.” Harry raised the hand from Draco’s chest and placed firmly upon his other shoulder. “Dumbledore would not have told you, wouldn’t have let you visit, if she wasn’t going to at least get a little better. You know that, right?”

It was shaky and slow in coming, but eventually Draco nodded. “I know.”

“It will just take time.”

“I know.” His voice choked slightly.

“And you can be here for her whenever you’d like. Dumbledore can’t stop you.” _I won’t let him_ , Harry thought, and that flicker of anger, of protectiveness that he always felt for Draco, fluttered within him again.

Draco moaned, low and pained and deep in his throat, as though the words sent a physical ache through him. His brow quivered, caught on the verge of folding and leaving him sobbing. And in that instant, Harry didn’t care what his friend thought about public appearances. He didn’t care that someone might see the Draco Malfoy crying in front of strangers. With one fluid motion, he closed the slight distance between them and for the second time that day tugged Draco’s head to his shoulder and wrapped him in a tight embrace.

 _I thank whatever weird glitch there is in my psyche that I can actually hug him._ The thought skittered across the surface of his mind. _Even if it is only to be able to comfort him, I’m glad I can touch him for this._

Draco held himself stiffly for a moment, but not nearly as long as Harry had considered he might. In moments, he slumped into him, forehead pressing against his shoulder and arms rising to latch tightly around Harry’s waist. So tightly Harry almost couldn’t breathe, but he didn’t mind. _Please, please just feel better. No, not even that. Just let yourself_ feel _without trying to hide it._

Over his hunched shoulders, Harry could see Emmaline standing respectfully across the foyer, her eyes drifting around the room and only pausing on them briefly. As she met Harry’s eyes, a small, sad smile touched her lips. Harry returned it in kind, mouthing to her a silent thanks as he began to gently pat Draco on the back. Emmaline inclined her head in acknowledgement before turning back to her watch.

They stood for an indeterminate amount of time. Long enough for a number of visitors to skirt around them and disappear further into the hospital or through the glass doors of the entrance. No one expressed anything but sympathy and sadness at Draco’s grief-stricken immobility. It made Harry regret that he hadn’t embraced his friend earlier.

There was one man, though, who stared a little differently. Harry felt the heat of his gaze before he noticed him, and turned his head slightly to meet the amber eyes of the man standing at the service desk. He was a tall, thin, unassuming man, dressed in rather worn clothes and with mousy brown hair and the scratching of a beard upon his cheeks. It was his stare, though, that really made him stand out. He clamped his gaze upon Harry and Draco with something bordering on shock, his mouth slightly ajar and eyes gradually widening.

 _What? Is it so hard to believe that Draco would need support? In a hospital?_ Harry felt an upwelling of unexpected resentment towards the man, a novel experience as he had always been largely indifferent to strangers. It must have shown on his face, for the man started and dropped his gaze back to the woman at the service desk.

It was enough for Harry, though. Turning towards Emmaline, he waited until he caught her eye once more. He didn’t even have to raise his voice to call her; she started towards them without request.

“I think we’re going to go back to school now.”

The woman nodded solemnly. “As you wish.” Her eyes drifted to Draco’s back, his head still dropped on Harry’s shoulder as though tired. “All the best Mr… Harry. Mr. Malfoy.”

“Thank you, Ms. Vince. We really appreciate your help today.”

“It's my pleasure.”

Sharing a smile, Harry dropped his hand into his pocket and struggled to unearth the small glass bowl. With a final glance around the foyer – the amber-eyed man was looking towards them once more– he muttered the intonation and they disappeared from the hospital.


	21. Climbing That Hill

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: A LOT of angst this chapter. A lot. And Snape being surprisingly nice in a bit of a hard love kind of way. I apologise that Draco and Harry are taking a bit to actually admit what everybody already knows. Seriously, even I'm chaffing at the bit for them to finally get around to it. But it will come! I swear!  
> Oh, and thank you to my wonderful commenters! You're awesome, as always! I love hearing from you.

The world was both better and worse after the visit to the hospital. Better because the crushing grief and despair that had threatened to reduce Draco to dust had eased, if only slightly. Worse because with that easing came a pervasive numbness. A numbness that, while smothering, could not keep the wheels in his mind from turning, the cogs from catching.

For Draco, those first few days after visiting his mother were torture. It was fortunate that the weekend had conveniently presented itself, for he doubted he would have had the presence of mind to attend classes. The image of his mother’s face, from slack and waxen to tense and snarling, played on disjointed repeat in his mind. He found himself unable to follow the conversations of those around him, his mind drifting back to the hospital or, just as bad if not worse, to the image of his father…

They hadn’t recovered his body. That was perhaps the worst part; even in death, Lucius Malfoy could not find peace in the family crypt. Most nights, especially in the beginning, Draco would awaken from nightmares of his father begging him, cursing him, pleading with him to rescue him, or to at least ensure his remains would not lie within the hands of his killers. Draco had never cried so much as in the first nights after learning that his world had been torn apart. He didn’t think it was healthy to shed so many tears; he could never recall doing so before.

His friends, both the Slytherins and Gryffindors, were a constant source of support, both in his initial detachedness and when he gradually evolved to spurning their condolences. Returning back from the hospital, Draco had not moved from his seat upon Snape’s couch for nearly a entire day. He knew his godfather had drifted around him, around the room, and asked him questions that he didn’t answer. He knew that at least Blaise and Pansy had knocked on the door more than once to ask after his wellbeing. Draco didn’t even raise his head.

Harry had been with him the whole time. Draco would wonder in later to come how, despite his aversion – no, more than that, his repulsion – from absolutely everyone, Harry’s presence seemed to be acceptable. Not that there was truly anything to find objectionable in it anyway. Just as the dark-haired boy had seemed to innately know what to say at the hospital, he also seemed to understand that Draco simply did not wish to hear words, submit to attempts at communication, but rather preferred to brood in silence. Harry sat beside him the entire time, not speaking a word, offering a nothing so much as the curl of his fingers around Draco’s own. It was all that Draco would accept and just what he needed. The third time Pansy and Blaise knocked on the door, Harry even went out to speak to them. Draco didn’t hear what was said; the door was closed and not a murmur could be heard through the thick wood. Not that he really cared. His mind was too occupied with… other things.

He didn’t sleep that first night. Harry did, slumped against him with his hand that ever-present hold. He apologized when he awoke, which Draco merely shrugged off without comment. They had stayed like that for most of the following day – much to Snape’s apparent disgruntlement – until Harry evidently felt that a change was in need.

“Come on, we’re going to get something to eat.”

Draco turned his head slowly towards his friend, watching with dull eyes as Harry unfolded himself from his seat and planted himself directly before him. There was a flatness in Harry’s eyes that Draco wasn’t familiar with but he recognised from when Harry had asked – no, _told_ Snape that he was accompanying Draco to the hospital. It brooked no argument.

Not that Draco didn’t try. “You go. I’m not hungry.”

Harry sighed. “Yes, you are. You just don’t realise you are.” Releasing his hold on Draco’s hand, he flicked his fingers in a beckoning gesture. “Come on. Snape’s rooms can’t be the best place to sulk anyway.”

Some small part of Draco’s mind objected to the term ‘sulk’ but he didn’t let it speak. He was so tired all of a sudden. His head hurt, and the urge to cry was so strong that he feared a repeat performance of the day before. Not that he was particularly worried about humiliating himself. It was simply that it would make him even _more_ tired. And he was finding that the wearier he was, the more his mind drifted and where it drifted hurt. Exceptionally.

Draco shook his head in dissent again, not bothering with words. Perhaps he should have, though, for Harry didn’t seem to understand.

“I’m not asking you, Draco. I’m telling you. We’re leaving.” And fitting a firm grip on his arm, Harry tugged him to his feet. Well, ‘tugged’ in the loosest sense of the term. Draco didn’t honestly think that Harry could bodily pull anyone to their feet. Still, the grip he had on Draco’s arm was painful enough that it encouraged him to rise on his own. It was difficult, and he felt light-headed, but he managed.

As they were leaving the room, Snape wandered from the bedroom to meet them at the door. There was an expectant air around the man, as though he was waiting for something but didn’t want to ask for it. Draco regarded him blankly before looking away, fixing his gaze on the door. He didn’t really care what Snape wanted at that moment.

Harry spoke up, though. “Thank you for having us, Professor. I’m going to take him to get some dinner.”

Snape affixed Harry in his stare. It was an odd stare, contemplative, as though he was seeing him for the first time. He nodded his head slowly. “I think that would be for the best. But perhaps not the Great Hall.”

“No, sir. But the house elves have always brought things to my room when I’ve asked.”

Snape nodded again. “Very well.’ He shifted his gaze to Draco. “I will make time to see you sometime at the beginning of next week, Draco. Ensure you have adequate rest for what remains of this weekend.”

Draco didn’t reply, keeping his eyes fixed on the door. Snape’s words hardly warranted a reply. Besides, it would take too much effort. The Defense professor stared at him for a moment longer – Draco could feel it, but refused to cave and meet that stare – before stepping forwards, opening the door for them and urging them out. Draco got the impression that he was still watching them as they disappeared around the corner.

Harry made good his word. Back in his rooms, he asked with something akin to practiced efficiency for lunch; it involved rapping a pattern on the coffee table and requesting, similar to what Blaise had done in the Great Hall what seemed so long ago. Draco watched idly as Harry smiled at the house elves, thanked them profusely and sent them away blushing as he set about ladling out what looked more like a breakfast of sausages and eggs than a real dinner.

“Here,” Harry offered him the piled plate, placing a fork deliberately on the coffee table. “Eat.”

Staring momentarily down at the plate nestled on his lap, Draco was surprised when, slowly lifting his gaze, his mouth opened and spoke for him. “You don’t eat on a couch.”

Harry stared blankly at him for a moment. He seemed a little surprised that Draco had said anything at all. Then a small smile touched his lips. ‘Well, unless you want to go to the Great Hall, you are today. Do you want to go? We can if you’d like.”

Shaking his head hesitantly, then with more force, Draco closed his eyes. _No, I don’t want to go there. Not now. Maybe not ever._ For some reason, the very idea of going out amongst people again left him feeling heavy and even more tired, kicking a bout of nausea into his gut. It would be too loud, filled with too many people that were acting simply too normal. It didn’t seem right, that they should be so normal when the everything had suddenly turned so wrong.

_My father… Mother…_

Seeming to notice Draco’s descending mood with his dropping gaze, Harry reached forward, scooped up the fork and fiddled with it between his hands. “That’s okay. We don’t have to if you don’t want to.” He smiled ruefully, which Draco only barely glimpsed from the corner of his eye. “I’m hardly one to comment on not eating dinner with the Houses. It would make me a bit of a hypocrite.”

It was funny. A little voice in the back of his head, right beside the one that continued to wail and weep hysterically, noted the fact. But he couldn’t seem to translate it into a smile, even had he wanted to. Harry stared at him for a moment longer, as though waiting for something, then nudged him lightly with his knee. “Please eat something, Draco. I’m not averse to feeding you myself, but I doubt you’d enjoy that.”

The mental image of that, inserting itself right between that of his father’s faintly smiling face and his mother’s sickly profile, was enough to get his to pick at his food. The first bite tasted rubbery and bland, but the next was slightly better. He was almost surprised when he looked down what felt like only moments later and realised he’d finished the whole plate.

Harry smiled at him; not a patronizing smile, simply an acknowledgement, perhaps a little grateful, as though he was thankful that Draco had followed his request. “Alright. Now you’re going to bed.”

Those first few days, Draco wasn’t sure if he would have survived without Harry. He would ponder, later, just how Harry had known exactly what to do. Almost as though he had done it before. Draco knew he hadn’t; Harry had barely had a friend in his life – he knew this too – and his family had been less than ideal role models in the caring department. But however he managed it, Draco was quietly grateful for the matter. It was probably the only way he managed to attend class on Monday too.

Not that he fully _attended._ He was in the room, but not entirely present. No one commented. From the whispers around him, Draco knew that the other students only speculated on what had happened, but the knowing and silent sympathy that radiated from every teacher suggested they were all keyed into the cause of his distress. Pansy and Blaise, as well as the Gryffindors, also appeared to have at least an inkling. Draco didn’t know if it was Snape, Dumbledore, or possibly Harry who had told them; he didn’t really care. It’s not like it changed anything. Besides, _Harry_ knew everything, and that was all that really mattered. Harry knowing… somehow, that was important. And not only because his friend stayed by his side like a shadow.

The rest of his friends tried to talk to him. About what had happened, in a roundabout sort of way. About how he was feeling, similarly from an alternative approach. Draco didn’t want to talk about it. He ignored most attempts to question him, and when he did reply it was as shortly as possible with a pointed stare to warn against further comments. Even Pansy took the hint after a while

When Snape’s first request to meet him after hours came, Draco ignored it. He was drifting; he seemed to exist in a state of exhaustion, reliving memories of the past and rarely speaking to anyone. He no longer even felt the urge to keep up his ever-present Malfoy mask. What did it matter? After the hospital, after his flight from his mother’s bedside, what did any of it matter? They could think what they wanted. He no longer felt the urge to play to anyone else’s standards anymore.

The second and third requests met him shortly afterwards, until finally, by Thursday, Snape cornered him after Defense.

“Draco, if you will not see me after dinner tonight, than I will be giving you detention and we will speak as you scrub cauldrons.” Draco had stared blandly back at Snape after that little ultimatum, but eventually nodded. What was the point in avoiding it any longer?

“He’s probably just worried about you.” Harry propped his head on his hand, staring at Draco sideways as he picked at his dinner. They were seated at the Slytherin table in the Great Hall, oddly isolated from other students in general. Draco remembered, in a detached sort of way, that Pansy had mentioned something about their Head of House having a word to the other students; something about leaving him alone and that anyone who questioned him would receive detention peeling Maudlin Goo off the potions desks.

Which explained their distancing, at least, and their averted gazes. Not the absence of his other friends. Draco wondered idly if Pansy, Blaise and the Gryffindors had finally grown tired of his presence. Their questions had gradually decreased over the past week or so and they seemed almost nervous to speak to him now. Another little voice told Draco that he should be more concerned with such a distancing, but he couldn’t seem to find the willpower to bother.

He shook his head, spearing a pea before dislodging it with a flick of his fork. “He wouldn’t be worried. Snape isn’t the kind of person to ‘worry’. He’s just doing what he’s told; Dumbledore probably asked him to check up on me or something.”

“No, I don’t think so,” Harry murmured, gaze dropping down to his own plate.

Draco scowled. “And how, exactly, would you know?” He felt the flicker of anger, subdued but still there as it beamed through his words. He had been struggling with it more and more the last few days. It threatened to break out at the most unexpected times and had done so, simmering and bubbling, a few unexpected times. Well, not really unexpectedly; it mostly happened when Pansy asked him if he was ‘alright’. He swore, if she asked him one more time…

Shrugging, Harry turned back towards Draco. “He seemed worried when we were in his rooms last Friday. I think he’s actually concerned for you.”

“And I’m saying, it’s just his job. He’s my godfather and all, but he’s never been close or bothered to care before.” Why was Harry even pushing this? It was so bothersome. Draco felt that weariness rise within him, at odds with the growing anger. “Why does it even matter?”

“It matters because if he wants to help you then perhaps it would be a good thing to talk to him.”

“Oh, because you’re a prime example of talking to people about your troubles? Done so much of that in the past, have you? How did that work out for you, Harry?”

He shouldn’t have said it, Draco knew that. Even half-buried beneath the dark blanket in his mind, Draco knew. The spasm of hurt that passed across Harry’s eyes was testimony to that, and he only managed to wipe his face clean with apparent difficulty. But his friend didn’t rise to the bait as Draco suddenly realised he wished he had. Instead, he simply dropped his chin and focused back on his plate, staring unseeingly at the half-eaten meal. “I know. You’re probably right. But that doesn’t mean it wouldn’t be good for you. Just to at least try. Maybe…”

Draco stood abruptly. He didn’t want to hear any more suggestions. For once, Harry didn’t seem to be saying the right thing. It was only adding fuel to that gradually rising fire within him. He couldn’t even push himself to feel faintly guilty for his words any longer.

Without another word or a glance back at Harry, Draco stepped over the back of the bench and strode from the room. He thought he saw Hermione at least watch his departure, but didn’t turn to confirm it. He felt inexplicably angry, and he just wanted to get away from people. For the first time since returning to Hogwarts, Draco considered sleeping in the Slytherin dormitory rather than going back to Featherwood’s rooms.

As he strode swiftly down the corridor, Draco seethed silently. _What could there possibly be to talk about? Why would_ Snape, _of all people, even_ try? _Why can’t people just leave me alone? Is that so much to ask for?_

He wandered aimlessly for a time. He knew he should go to Snape’s office, but couldn’t seem to direct his feet in that direction. The school bell chimed seven o’clock by the time he felt calmed enough to push himself towards the Defense Against the Dark Arts room. For even brooding and detached as he was, Draco did not feel in the least bit inclined to scrub cauldron. Snape always stayed late in his classroom and could often be found in his office even on weekends. Draco didn’t even consider the possibility that the man might have departed for his private rooms.

He was correct in his assumption. Stepping into the classroom without knocking, Draco paused just inside the doorway. Snape was seated, bowed over a stack of parchments like a vulture. The man’s prominent nose and draping robes only added to the impression.

And he was pointedly ignoring him, too, even when Draco ensured he made enough noise with his entry that ignoring him would have been simply impossible. _What a resentful old man._

After standing silently for five minutes, Draco cleared his throat. Still receiving no response, he sighed heavily, his anger sizzling once more. _Fine, if that’s how you’re going to be._ Pivoting on his foot, Draco turned to leave.

“Sit down.”

The words were slightly ominous and probably would have made Draco struggle not to cringe in the past. Now, he simply turned slowly back to Snape and stared at him flatly. The man hadn’t even raised his head from his papers.

Draco contemplated leaving, but… _You’re already here. And if history is anything to go by, he’ll just keep pestering you until you come back again. And that would just be annoying._ Heaving another sigh, Draco turned back to the room and wandered to the front row of desks. He slumped into one of the seats and fixed his gaze firmly on the pockmarked table before him. Snape kept reading, only pausing to make an odd notation with a flourish of his raven’s quill.

Draco lost track of time. That happened sometimes, lately. He stared at the desk and memories played out over his mind. He would have prided himself on his ability to out-wait Snape, if only the memories had not settled their familiar, choking darkness upon his mind and sadness engulfed him. It was so consuming that the flickering flame of anger died to a fragment of its initial heat.

Finally, Snape apparently deemed him to have waited long enough. Draco was only faintly aware of him placing his quill down precisely and folding his arms across the desk before him. “Have you calmed yourself now?”

Draco’s eyes rose of their own accord. “What are you talking about?”

“Your anger. I will not converse with you if you are not in a mind to be civil.”

Draco felt his eyes widen incredulously. _That bastard!_ “I was not angry, sir, I was –“

“Yes, you were. Don’t attempt to fool me, Draco. It will not end well for you.”

Huffing a sigh, Draco turned back to his study of the table, slumping further into his seat. His father would have been disgusted at his slouch, but then his father… Draco clenched his teeth, thrusting the thought away with shattering force. The grazing pain it left behind it remained strong, however.

“Now,” Snape leant forward slightly in his seat, apparently satisfied he had made Draco wait long enough again, “how are you, Draco?”

Draco snorted. It was almost funny. “Are you serious? You called me here to ask me how I am?”

“I feel that such a question is redundant,” Snape replied in a drawl.

Barking a humorless laugh, Draco turned his eyes to the ceiling. “Well, thank you for asking, Professor. I’m wonderful, just dandy, couldn’t be better –“

“Draco –“

“In fact, since you asked, I think things are going along swimmingly. Was that all you wanted to know? Alright, then.” Planting his hands on the table, Draco pushed himself to his feet, already turning to leave. “I’d quite like to take my leave now.”

“Sit. Down.”

It was a tone that Draco had only heard several times throughout his life, and even in the midst of his rekindled anger, Draco felt the faint murmur of fear in his gut. The words was quiet – too quiet – and soft. As soft as a cutting knife. Draco paused in his retreat, resisted for a moment, then sank back down into his seat. His eyes fixed firmly once more upon the little craters and burn marks dotting the desk.

“Good. Now, you will speak to me if I have to keep you here all night.”

Draco couldn’t meet Snape’s eyes. “What exactly do you want me to say, sir?” The sir slipped out without his behest, but he didn’t make an attempt to suck the term back in. It seemed appropriate. Instead, he settled for staring fiercely at the table. The wood weathered his glare remarkably well.

“You are not coping, Draco.”

“I’m fine –“

“No, you are not. And I think it would be best to talk to someone about it.”

“What, like a Mind-Healer?” Draco snorted. This was getting ridiculous. “There’s nothing wrong with me.”

“Oh?” Snape waited until Draco reluctantly raised his eyes. The man’s face was expressionless, save for a slightly quirked dark eyebrow. “So ignoring your friends is normal?’

“I’m not ignoring them –“

“Neglecting your studies?”

“They’re not neglected –“

“Spending your hours alternating between brooding silences and scowls, punctuated only by angry retorts to the most mellow of questions?”

“I don’t -!”

“Draco.” Snape’s eyebrow rose further. “Do not where the façade of the village idiot with me. You are not stupid, though you appear to be attempting to conform to as much. Had I not known your circumstance, I would have felt that Longbottom and Weasley were having a negative influence upon you.” He paused, and a frown wrinkled his forehead this time. “Though you do appear to be driving them away as well.”

Draco stared at the man silently. He knew his mouth had dropped open, but he couldn’t bring himself to care. He felt angry. Angry, and self-righteous and… and… misunderstood! “I am _not_ acting like an idiot.”

“Yes, you are. In fact, your change has been so rapid and dramatic, that I thought perhaps you may have pushed yourself into it. It has been less than a week since –“

“Since what? Since my entire life turned to shit?!” Draco was so affronted that he didn’t even consider the dangers of swearing to a teacher. And Snape, of all teachers. It felt far too necessary. How could Snape sit there, spouting how he had changed ‘so rapidly’ and reprimanding him for it when his life as he knew it had been turned upside down. “What do you expect, _Professor?_ Do you think I’m so cold and heartless that the _death_ of my _father_ wouldn’t effect me? That my _mother_ being _tortured_ into near insanity would leave me unaffected?” He realized was breathing hard, chest heaving as though he had just run a mile, but couldn’t slow it. The words pouring from him were an insuppressible and tearing torrent.  

Snape stared at him silently for a moment. His fingers tapped idly on the desk. “No,” he finally uttered, gaze narrowing slightly. “No, I do not believe it would have left you unchanged. How could it? And in such a way…” He trailed off, fingers tapping a rhythm against upon the heavy wood that Draco found immediately annoying.

“Thank you, for you acknowledgement. Sir.” Draco’s voice was nearly a growl.

“You should not blame yourself, you know.”

Draco blinked. It took a moment for Snape’s words to process, incomprehensible as they were. _Where had that come from?_ “What?”

“This guilt you feel. Let it go. It was not your fault.”

“What the bloody hell are you know –?”

“Draco, stop.” Those fingers drummed infuriatingly again, their rapid movement catching Draco’s eye and causing him to twitch with every repetition. It set his teeth on edge. “I can see the truth of your thoughts even as attempt to deny them. We are more similar that you would likely believe, you and I. And you are not as invincible as you seem to think.”

“I don’t believe I’m invincible,” Draco muttered dully. He couldn’t even bring himself to consider that he and Snape were ‘similar’.

“Then why are you denying that you are hurt? So guilty? You know that is what you are feeling, don’t you? Why you feel angry? It is unnecessary, unwarranted guilt; you feel that it is your fault that your parents were attacked as they were.”

Draco dropped his chin. It was disconcerting, hearing Snape speak so heartfelt with his usual monotonous drone, words that carried a weight and truth that Draco couldn’t deny. His anger was growling like an awakening dragon, but alongside that was a deep, heart-wrenching sadness. _I know that. Don’t tell me how I feel, what I think. I know that’s what I feel. And it’s because it’s true._

“It is not true.” Snape spoke as though he had stood witness to Draco’s thoughts. It caused Draco to flinch and tuck his chin further.

“What they hell do you know?”

It wasn’t really a question, but Snape answered anyway. “I know more than you would think.”

“No, you don’t.” Abruptly, the dam that had held back his emotions shattered. Lurching to his feet once more, Draco leant heavily on the table. His breath was ragged once more and his eyes infuriatingly blurry. “You don’t know anything. Because otherwise, there is no way that you could say it wasn’t my fault. It’s my fault that the Dark Lord found out about their conversion. Merlin, it’s my fault that they even switched sides in the first place! If I had been better, if I had tried harder, then they would be safe. If I had fixed that bloody Cabinet, then the Dark Lord would have had no reason to threaten them. If I had –“

“Killed Dumbledore?”

Draco froze, his breaths still gasping, and raised his eyes slowly to Snape’s. The man met them with quiet regard. “What?”

“Your next assignment. To murder Dumbledore.”

Draco couldn’t breath. Though his chest still pumped, his throat still clenching and sucking painfully, there didn’t seem to be enough oxygen in the room. “What do you…? How …?”

“Your parents knew. It was what drove them to seek protection from the side of the light. It was an impossible task, as the Cabinet was supposed to be, but when you reportedly did so well with it the Dark Lord saw fit to assign you further ‘duties’.”

The words entered Draco’s ears fuzzily, as though he had pygmy-puffs stuffed within them. It didn’t make sense. Why hadn’t _he_ even known about it, if it was his task? Then a thought occurred to him. His words tumbled out in barely a hoarse whisper. “Then it is even more my fault that they –“

“No, it is not.” There was so much force in Snape’s words that it seemed an almost impossible task to consider disbelieving him. “I spoke to your parents, both of them. They made the decision based, yes, on the thought of protecting you, but also because of a shift in viewpoint. The Dark Lord has been acting erratically, ruthlessly, and mercilessly since his return. Even more than he once had. It was not the world they wished to live in, the perceived benefits no longer outweighing the destruction wreaked to attain such goals. And killing Dumbledore would make sure that the Dark Lord succeeded in his plans.

“Your parents made an educated decision. They chose to spy for the side of the light. In the past weeks, they have provided valuable information to the Order of the Phoenix, information that I alone have been attempting to gather yet failing to given the nature of my own circumstances.” Snape paused, and Draco wondered for a moment if he was thinking the same as Draco was: Snape was openly declaring his position, declaring his treachery to the Dark Lord. Draco had suspected, certainly, but to have it confirmed… “The information both your mother and father gained was invaluable. It will contribute exponentially to ending this war. However,” and Snape paused again. A brief flicker of pain crossed his face, so brief Draco almost missed it. “The Dark Lord became aware of their shift in allegiance. Your parents were careful, but not careful enough.”

Draco gritted his teeth. The upwelling of tears threatened to bubble over once more. _Not careful enough_. It hurt, too much to even fully contemplate.

“So you see, Draco. The fault lies not with you.”

It made sense, a little bit. Logically, Draco could understand how it was his parent’s decision. Of course, he was sure that his own protection was a large contributor to driving their change of heart, but he could understand Snape’s words. Yet logical as it was, it did nothing to alleviate the guilt. It shifted it slightly, but only slightly, and only to better dig its claws into the shoulders of his grief.

“You are not convinced.”

“Did you really expect me to be?”

Snape stared at him, then slowly shook his head. “No, I suppose not. I had hoped, but that is a different thing entirely.”

“It is,” Draco agreed tonelessly. He realised abruptly that he had fallen back into his seat at some stage. He wondered when.

“But that is beside the point. What I am saying, Draco, is that you are not coping. For whatever reason – and I cannot claim I understand all of them – I fear that this will only get worse unless something is done.” The man released a breath that was not quite a sigh, a sound that so rarely passed his lips that Draco lifted his head in surprise. He almost sounded concerned. Tired. Worried.

_Worried?_

“I think perhaps you should speak to someone.”

Draco shook his head. His anger had died completely and for the first time in days, Draco could not find a trace of it. The guilt still remained, though for some reason it wasn’t as consuming as it had been before. Painful, yes, and horrifying, but manageable to a degree. Draco didn’t know why. Snape’s explanation? His own confession? Simply that the reality of his feelings were cast into the open. He didn’t know, but for some reason he realized that even just slightly he could accept the guilt. More than that, he could almost – _almost_ – understand that guilt was illogical. Not all of it, but some.

_Or maybe I just needed to yell at someone._

“I don’t want to see a Mind-Healer. I’m not sick.” There was no heat to his words, though, and Draco knew that if Snape pushed it he would probably cave under the suggestion.

Snape only shook his head, lank hair flipping loosely. “I am not suggesting a Mind-Healer. I was thinking rather a grief counselor”

“Grief counselor? What, like a therapist?”

“Of a sort.” Snape had begun tapping his fingers again. It was still annoying, but not enraging. “Just someone to talk to, to convey your fears to, your worries. Your guilt, unrealistic as it is.”

Draco released a huff a humorless laugh. Of course, even when attempting civility Snape would always press his opinion. For he was always right, wasn’t he? “I don’t know. Will you let me think about it?”

Black eyes pinned him firmly. They were so dark that Draco couldn’t even see the pupils. They seemed to search within him, though searching for what Draco wasn’t sure. He seemed to find it though, whatever it was, for he nodded shortly afterwards. “If you will. Inform in a week of your decision. If you feel you are more than capable of recovering without it, then I will abide by your decision. However,” and Snape’s jaw tightened slightly, “continue as disagreeably as you have, particularly in regard to your friends, and I will have to promote my own opinion further.”

Bowing his head, Draco nodded. He didn’t even pause to contemplate the remarkable admission in Snape’s words; that Draco needed his friends. He pushed himself to his feet, recognizing the end of the conversation when he saw it. Tiredness reaffixed its hold upon him, and he wished for nothing except a pillow and a bed.

“Draco?”

Glancing up, Draco met Snape’s gaze once more. There was an odd softness to it, something Draco wasn’t sure he had ever seen before. “Sir?”

“In regards to visiting your mother.”

Coldness spread through Draco’s stomach, warring with his weariness for precedence. It was akin to nervousness, yet so much deeper than that. He swallowed, pressing his lips together to stop them from trembling. I won’t cry. Not this time.

“She is somewhat better. She has not yet fully awoken, but her medi-witch reports that her bouts of hallucination-driven distress have decreased markedly.” Snape paused, tilted his head as though contemplating Draco from a different angle. “She is predicted to awaken within the week.”

A lump formed in Draco’s throat, making his eyes water with its tightness. “She is… alright, sir?”

“Recovering, yes.” Snape waited for Draco to continue, but he couldn’t. It felt as though the lump were pressing down on his voice box. “The headmaster has informed me that, should you so desire, you may visit her as you wish. It is not uncommon for students to visit ailing relatives. Your circumstances are slightly different, what with the need for Auror accompaniment, but can be accommodated.”

Nodding, Draco swallowed, gulping to push the lump down. “Thank you, sir. I’ll…” What? He wasn’t sure if he was ready to go and see her again, didn’t know if he could face it, even when there was such a large part at him reaching out longingly, desperately.

“Let me know,” Snape requested, nodding knowingly. Draco was grateful for that.

Sliding out from his seat, Draco made his way towards the door. He was nearly through when Snape called out to him again. A twinge of something like annoyance tweaked in his temple. Not quite anger but... _Still, he could say everything at once, for a change._

“About your friends.”

No, he definitely felt annoyed. Still not angered, but certainly irked. Draco glanced over his shoulder. “Sir, I think I’m capable of handling the mess I’ve gotten myself into.”

A faint smile curled Snape’s lips. It wasn’t a particularly pretty sight. “Just so long as you recognise it is a mess.”

Draco sighed. Perhaps he had been a little short with them. His mind flickered towards Pansy and Blaise, who he had drilled into silence, to the Gryffindors that he had practically ignored. To Harry, who had barely left his side in the past week and to whom he had snapped at so unnecessarily over dinner. Which, he realized with a cringe, had been very uncalled for and very unkind. Yes, perhaps he had been short.

“I can see you are considering remedying your disharmonies.” There was something that sounded almost like pride in Snape’s tone. Draco could have been imagining it, maybe even hoping for it, but he didn’t think so. A final nod, and Draco left the room. He sought a pillow and a bed, for sure, but there was really only one course he could set himself upon.

He stood outside the door with a feeling of anxiousness that he was entirely unaccustomed to. The walk back to Harry’s rooms had been more and more confronting with every step. Yes, he had been short. And unkind; he shouldn’t have said what he had. Especially not to Harry. His friend had been nothing but supportive since he had received the news that shattered him.

 _No._ Draco frowned. _He’s been supportive since before then. I just haven’t appreciated it._ The thought only made him feel worse. For the second time that night, Draco contemplated returning to the Slytherin dormitory to sleep, though for entirely different reasons this time.

Taking a deep breath, Draco raised his hand and rapped his knuckles on the door. It was an odd feeling; he’d never knocked before. Prior to the Christmas holidays, Harry’s rooms had been a bit of a private area; no one had ventured into them, nor even approached them. And after the holidays, Draco had practically treated them as his own. Would that change tonight? He certainly hoped not. His words had been few and short, but the pain that had briefly crossed Harry’s face had been very real.

The door swung inwards silently, revealing a shrouding darkness beyond. Harry peered out, half-hidden by the door and blinking rapidly behind his glasses at the difference in light in the torch-lit hallway. He had pulled his braid out, the hair falling messily around his face, and had already changed into the loose slacks and t-shirt he favoured over pajamas.

It was with a pang that Draco noted the solemn expression on his face, the faint sadness in his friend’s eyes as he met Draco’s gaze through the long tresses of his fringe. It hurt, more than Draco had expected it to. More, perhaps, than he had wanted it to.

Surprisingly, it was Harry who broke the silence. His voice was small and quiet, just like him, yet the reservation was nearly heartbreaking. “Hi.”

Before Draco knew it, his tongue had run away from him. “I’m sorry. Harry, I’m really sorry. I shouldn’t have said what I did. It was wrong, and cruel, and uncalled for and… I’m really, so sorry. I never want to upset you.”

Harry stared at him for a moment. A long moment, in which left Draco fought the urge to fidget. Then, as though nothing were amiss, Harry gave his small, familiar smile and stepped back from the door. The meaning couldn’t have been plainer. Draco hastened indoors.

“I really am sorry,” he muttered, biting his lip as he followed Harry into the living room. “I hope you’ll –“

“Draco, I can’t even think what it was that you said that apparently upset me. So in that case, you’re forgiven.”

Which was a lie. Or at least the first part was. Draco knew this, but he appreciated the words nonetheless. Sighing heavily, he sank down into the couch. “Well, I am still sorry, but even saying that, I’m glad I’m forgiven. I was wondering if you’d make me sleep in the Slytherin dorms tonight.”

Harry’s smile widened as he tucked himself onto the couch beside him. “Oh, I couldn’t do that. Blaise said they’ve already converted your bed to storage space. You’d been sleeping on the floor if you went back.”

Draco snorted. “Oh, heavens no. Well, looks like your stuck with me, then.”

Harry shrugged, butting his shoulder into Draco’s. “Good thing I don’t mind you hanging around, then.”

* * *

Things took a turn for the better after that. Though he was still weighed down with a constant ache in his chest, it felt like Draco had finally reached the bottom of the hill of grief and despair and was beginning the slow climb back up again. It was heavy going, and he had to stop at times, even slide back a few paces, but move forward he did.

He realised he had been a little irrational. Or perhaps a lot. In the depths of his brooding, he hadn’t even been fully aware of his surfacing anger most of the time. When he finally bit his cheek for long enough to apologise to Blaise and Pansy, the Slytherin girl gave him no chance to overlook what she saw as a slight.

“I know, Draco. I do know you are in pain. But I swear, I thought you were planning to murder me in my sleep for the glares you gave me.”

“Pansy, lay off a little, his father just –“

“I am well aware of that Blaise.” Pansy gave Blaise a glare that suggested she was considering murdering _him_ in his sleep. When she turned back towards Draco, though her face softened and adopted something that was as close to sympathy as Draco thought had ever graced her features.

“Draco, I understand. I may not be able to relate completely, but I do understand.” She reached out and grasped his hand firmly. There was solidity, sureness, in that grasp that erased any feelings of resentment Draco felt was the faint flicker of pity beneath the sympathy. “I was only worried about you, though. _We_ were only worried about you. And,” horribly, her eyes glazed over and she struggled to blink back tears, “I respected your parents. No, that is too impersonal. I liked them. Your father…” She paused again, turning her head for a moment and her free hand rose to wipe beneath one eye. “But your mother, she will get better, Draco. She will. I know it.”

Not days before, Draco would have yanked his hand from Pansy’s grasp and stared at her in angry disdain. Resented her for even _trying_ to understand the pain he was feeling. The resentment was still there, certainly, but he managed to quell it enough that he could see the care and worry she felt for him, saw her own grief that she fought valiantly to hide in the face of his own. It was not as profound, not as deep, he was sure, but it was still definitely there.

“Thank you, Pansy. I appreciate it.” He couldn’t look at her face, fixing his eyes on the table instead, but he caught the nod of acknowledgement out of the corner of his eye, saw the small smile before she slowly released his hand.

“We’re here for you, _mi amico_. Just don’t push us away again. Please.” Blaise spoke up in the following silence, meeting Draco’s stare imploringly, and how could he do anything but nod at such blatant honesty? Even if it was a little embarrassing. He murmured something that he hoped passed as gratitude.

The Gryffindors forgave him more slowly, but they did eventually. Surprisingly it was Ron who showed the most compassion; the Weasley seemed devastated when he related how he was sure he would have been even more of a sullen git than Draco had something happened to one of the members of his family. The look of nauseated horror that paled his features was so profound that Draco couldn’t even find it in himself to be affronted at the back-handed criticism. Ron’s words seemed to take strides in convincing Hermione and Neville to follow in his footsteps, however, for which he was grateful.

Gradually, in the week following his meeting with Snape, Draco managed to get a hold on his emotions enough to limp towards a semblance of his usual behavior. It was difficult, there was no denying it; as though his physically limped on a wounded limb, rather than being plagued mentally by an onslaught of triggering memories and overwhelming emotions. Emotions that were gradually softening, if not quite numbing – still there, but somehow less painful.

It helped that he had his friends as a crutch. And it helped more than anything that Harry was at times literally propping him up under the arm, as though he saw the mental need as a physical one and offered the comfort of contact without request. They never spoke of their brief argument, so incredibly brief that it was barely a pimple in the flat plains of smoothness. Draco was more grateful of that than even his friend’s renewed support. He didn’t know what he would have done if Harry had abruptly decided he was too much trouble. It was a little frightening to realise how much he relied upon him.

Steadily, over the next weeks, he fell back into routine, and even began paying attention in class once more. By Tuesday of the third week from receiving the news, he felt composed enough to participate once more in Hermione’s study group – for both Gryffindor’s and Slytherins unanimously agreed that it was very much hers. His friends watched at him warily for a while initially, but recovered quickly and proceeded with their studying as usual, note taking and essay writing broken only by hushed chatter.

By the time Friday came around, Draco felt he could almost claim to be ‘composed’ once more. The memory of his father followed him like a ghost, flickering often to the image of his mother, but like a ghost it didn’t seem to have the power to drag him to the floor and demand he serenade his sorrow. He still flinched whenever he looked at it too closely, but that was livable. It was endurable.

So when Snape spoke quietly to him after Defense Against the Dark Arts once more, questioning him on his consideration of seeking a counselor once more, he shook his head almost firmly.

“No thank you, Professor. I believe I will maintain my own attempts at coming to terms with my… um…” He trailed off, unable to find the words, or perhaps unwilling to voice them. He firmed his jaw however and met Snape’s eyes, stare for stare.

Snape had gazed at him piercingly. If Draco hadn’t known that Snape respected his privacy enough, he would have feared the man of performing Legilimens on him. Finally, he inclined his head slowly. “If that is your choice, I will not oppose it.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“However, should the need arise in future –“

“I will most certainly reconsider. Thank you, sir, I understand the error of my ways before and I am… dealing better with it now.” He struggled with the words slightly; one thing that he had noticed return since his low period was the pride he had in his own correctness. No Malfoy would willingly admit their shortcomings, nor readily confess to their mistakes.

Snape nodded once more. “I will take you at your word.” Draco nodded gratefully and turned to leave.

“Draco?”

 _Why does he always wait until I’m just about to leave before bringing something else up?_ But Draco turned back once more in enquiry.

“Yes, sir?”

Pausing with that infuriating pensiveness – _though at least he’s not drumming his fingers again_ – Snape regarded him silently. “Have you considered my other suggestion?”

Draco swallowed. He shook his head, dropping his eyes. He still didn’t know if he was ready for that.

“Your mother awoke two days past.” The words caused Draco’s head to snap up sharply. “She was lucid for the first time, though very tired.” Snape shifted in his seat slightly, dropping his eyes to his hands and folding them distractedly. “Perhaps you would consider?”

Cringing, Draco squeezed his eyes shut. The very prospect of seeing his mother filled him with both fear and longing. He wanted to see her. He wanted it so badly that the hurt nearly overwhelmed the pain of the memory of his last visit. Almost, but not quite.

“I don’t know… if I can, sir.” He struggled to enunciate the words, and they were barely audible, even to himself.

‘Then that is your prerogative.” Snape was still staring at his hands, but he closed his eyes, as though defeated. “I will not force you, Draco. You are the best judge of what you are ready for.”

Draco nodded, his own eyes shifting to his feet. He felt like he had disappointed Snape, though knew that if asked again he would have replied the same. He didn’t even know why the thought bothered him so much; he could hardly claim he knew Snape at all. “Thank you for telling me, sir.”

His godfather didn’t speak to him again as he left, didn’t raise his head even as he slipped the door shut. Draco sighed, closing his eyes and leaning back against the wall tiredly. The confrontation was not as bad as their last, but still draining.

“Are you alright? You look like you’ve run a marathon.”

Snapping his eyes open, Draco turned towards Harry’s voice. His friend was regarding him quietly, always quietly, with a slight tilt to his head.

“What are you still doing here?”

Harry tilted his head further. “Am I not allowed to be?”

“No, it’s just… I though you were going with Neville to the –“

‘I told him I’d meet him there. It’s no rush, and Hagrid doesn’t mind waiting. Besides, I think it’s more Neville that he wanted Spit to see than me.’

Draco chuckled despairingly at the name Harry gave the hydra. It was the beast’s choice, according to Neville, but he still though it rather stupid. “You didn’t have to wait, you know. It wasn’t anything huge.” Except for the bit about his mother. He glanced away so that Harry couldn’t see the pain tightening his eyes.

“I know. I’m sure you would have told me if you needed anything.” The tone denied his words as much as Harry’s pointedly raised eyebrows. Draco had to laugh again at that. How Harry could make him laugh with just an expression when he felt that horrible ache…

A thought occurred to him. He glanced towards Harry and his friend frowned questioningly, as though he had already heard the request on Draco’s lips. “Harry, I’ve…” He stopped, pressed his lips together for a moment before trying again. “Would you help me?”

For a moment, Harry just stared at him in surprise. It would have been comical, except that a moment later his small smile caught at his lips. “Of course. What do you need?”

And so, on Saturday morning, they visited the hospital once more.

Vince accompanied them again, though with a different partner this time. Draco was mildly disconcerted to recognise Alastor Moody, his teacher from not two years back. Not that he was a hard person to recognise. Moody stood out in a crowd, and it wasn’t solely due to the wooden leg and madly spinning eye. He just carried an… air about him. Harry appeared to be struggling to decide if he was more disconcerted or fascinated by the sight of him.

“Alright, boy?” Moody grunted at Draco as soon as he saw him. “Let’s get along with it, then.” His tone wasn’t entirely unsympathetic, but he was curt nonetheless. Draco and Harry trailed after the man’s lead this time.  
Draco paused once more outside his mother’s door, as he had weeks before. The feeling of déjà vu gripped him once more and he tightened his grip on Harry’s hand. Because of course Harry held his hand; he hadn’t let go of it since they had left the school. Harry’s cold fingers gripped his own back just as tightly. It was that which gave him the courage to step inside the room.  
She looked better. She truly did; not _entirely_ better, to be sure, but it was a vast improvement on the last time he had seen her. The curtains were thrown open, shedding morning light into the room, and that probably improved things. It didn’t seem so gloomy any more.

Her face was pale, but not that yellow waxiness that had tinged it before. Her arms were thin, but her fingers didn’t twitch and claw at her wrists like a madwoman’s anymore. And when Draco stepped into the room, her head turned and her eyes blinked open. A wobbly smile settled on her lips.

“Draco.”

He didn’t cry. Harry would calmly and soothingly deny his claim later, but he knew he didn’t cry. He did nearly fall into his mother’s proffered embrace, however, and held her so tightly that she had to urge gentleness for fear of injury.

“Mother… I’m so… so…”

“Shhh, it’s alright, my love.”

“But Father… Father, he –“

“Hush,” she stroked his head gently, softly, just like she had when he was a child. “All will be well now. We cannot change the past, but the future will be bright.”

Though her voice trembled, and her arms shook with the strain of holding themselves up, Draco felt immediately soothed by the words. He could believe them, if his mother was the one who spoke them.

And for the first time in weeks, Draco was able to breath without pain.


	22. One Push Too Far

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Firstly, thank you to my trio of commenters last chapter. You were each so sweet with your words, it gave me shivers with each post! Thanks for taking a moment to let me know your thoughts :) I always appreciate more.
> 
> ALSO, regarding this chapter: a bit of canon divergence in regards to what's happened in the past. Please hold off objections; it IS very much an AU in most every other regard. And also, Draco's... um, a bit of a snot. Apologies in advance. Please bear in mind he's still grieving and still very vulnerable.

“God, Neville, it's all up your arm!”

Ginny sounded nearly frantic as she struggled to wrestle the sleeve of Neville's robe past his elbow. Her face sagged into mounting horror as every inch revealed a smattering of faint blue bruises. Neville sighed, gently attempting to pry her fingers off his robes.

“It's fine, Ginny. I'm fine. Really.”

“What happened, Neville? No one hurt you, did they?” Harry kept his tone quiet; he didn't want to draw any more attention to his friend than Ginny already had in her display of protectiveness. Already half of the Gryffindor table were shooting the Neville curious glances, only to turn away at the pointed stares of Draco, Pansy and Blaise. There was something to be said for dining with Slytherins, even when not at Slytherin’s table.

Dragging his gaze from Ginny, whose teeth were bared in a near snarl of worry, Neville met Harry's gaze. He offered a small smile. “It's nothing to worry about, Harry. Honestly, I just had to help Dumbledore out with something. Nothing all that different to usual –“

“Like hell it's not different to usual. Look at you arms, Neville.” Ginny's voice took on a scolding tone that didn't quite offset its shrillness. “What has he got you doing that you'd be hurt like that?”

“Ginny, really, I'm o-“

“Don't you tell me you’re 'okay', Neville Longbottom. I won't hear it. Tell me –“

“Gin, calm down.” Ron, seated on the other side of his sister, rested a mollifying hand on her shoulder. The girl shrugged off fiercely but Ron hardly seemed deterred by the fact. “You know Neville's been going to see Dumbledore to learn... stuff. I'm sure it's got something to do with what he's been teaching him. Right, Neville?”

Neville nodded his head wearily. Not for the first time that morning, Harry noted how exhausted his friend seemed. Neville rarely spoke to him about going to see Dumbledore; Harry didn't even know what he did with the headmaster, only that it had something to do with the war and searching for a solution to the disaster that was Lord Voldemort. He suspected that Ron and Hermione were more informed, but didn't hold the fact against them. They had known Neville for longer, been his friend through so much more; it was natural that Neville would feel more comfortable cluing them in, especially when his secrets were not entirely his to share. Even had Harry felt a little upset at the prospect of being excluded, he could hardly complain. He knew that Draco, Blaise and Pansy were as oblivious as he.

Ginny, however, was not satisfied. “I _do_ know that. But you've never come back looking like you've been attacked by shadow ghouls.” The Weasley girl glared at Neville intently, finally releasing her hold on him to fold her arms across his chest. Harry didn't blame Neville for cringing slightly. An angry Ginny was certainly intimidating. “Would you care to explain?”

Struggling to unfold himself from his cower, Neville nodded slowly. “I will. Honestly, Gin, I'm not trying to hide anything, it's just...” His gaze flickered up to the Slytherins, then drew along the length of the Gryffindor table. Despite the stares that Draco and Pansy still sent any lingering gazes, there was still far too many people obviously straining their ears to catch a word of gossip.

Harry turned his face back down to his half-eaten breakfast. He wasn't hurt that Neville didn't feel he could trust him – _them_ – enough to share the secrets of his dealings with the headmaster. Not too much, anyway. He liked Neville, really liked him, and considered him possibly his closest friend after Draco. Different as they were, they also shared a remarkable amount in common, one of which being the majority of their classes. But even so, he could understand the need for secrecy. Sometimes it was hard to share.

“Did you want us to meet you in Defense, then?” Draco asked, looking up from his finished meal and leaning back casually in his seat. Too casually, really. It was obviously a very deliberate question. But his Malfoy mask was back in place, and he hid any irritation or dissatisfaction well. Harry was almost sad to see the return of that facade, even if it was a long sight better from the sullen listlessness broken only by spurts of illogical anger that had gripped Draco over the past weeks week before. He wasn't fully back to normal - Harry didn't expect him to be, not after what he had been through, and he honestly wondered if he ever would be - but he was getting there. Time would tell.

All four Gryffindor heads turned towards the blonde. Neville blinked rapidly. “What?”

“Meet you. In Defense. I'm sure I could come up with some excuse to get Snape off your back if you needed some extra time to talk.”

Neville's face had fallen into an expression of surprise. He flickered his gaze to Harry, to Blaise and Pansy for a moment, before returning to Draco. “What, you don't want to know too?” He sounded, if anything a little affronted by the fact.

 _Is he annoyed that we aren't showing enough interest in where he's been?_ Harry wondered

“Of course I'd like to hear. I'm sure Harry, Pansy and Blaise would two.” Draco glanced at each friend in turn, receiving a mixture of shrugs, nods and murmurs in reply. “But I respect your privacy. I don't expect you to be comfortable in sharing all your secrets with us. Or, well, me at least.”

Surprise had faded into growing irritation on Neville's face. “And why wouldn't I feel comfortable with sharing stuff with you?”

Shrugging, Draco nudged his fork on his empty plate, as though he were only half attending the conversation. Harry knew better; his shoulders were far too stiff for that. “Me especially? Well, I have had rather dubious correspondents in the past. I'm sure you're aware of that, Neville.”

“Yes, but now –“

“My entire family was rather involved until recently with some questionable characters.” Draco chuckled humourlessly, in tones slightly pained. Likely it was because of the mention of his family. Harry unconsciously slipped his fingers around Draco's beneath the table. His friend took his grasp without question. He was attempting nonchalance, but the pain of talking about his parents was evidently still raw.

Suddenly, Neville stood. It was such an abrupt motion that Ginny was startled enough to drop her glare. “Bugger that, Malfoy. You're coming too. All of you are.” And he cast a meaningful, encompassing glance at Harry and the rest of his friends before stepping over the back of the bench and stalking from the Great Hall. It would have been more impressive had he not paused at the door and glanced back at them impatiently, beckoning them after him, before disappearing through the door.

Ron and Hermione shared a bemused glance before clambering to their own feet. “I wouldn't leave him waiting,” Ron muttered, fond mirth tickling his tone. “He'll probably come back and drag you out if you don't hurry along.” Hitching his bag onto his shoulder, the redhead strode from the room, Ginny and Hermione tagging along behind him.

Pansy's face was a picture of bafflement as she rose from her seat. “I though he was hesitant to talk about it. Now he's angry at the prospect that he won't be able to? What was all that about?”

Blaise shrugged. “He's a Gryffindor. He was probably offended that Draco would even consider he didn't trust him, even after their rocky past.” He grinned slowly at the Draco, rising with casual ease from his own seat. “Nice employment of reverse psychology, my friend.”

Draco inclined his head as he too rose to his feet, accepting the compliment as his due. There was something in the downcast of his eyes, however, that Harry though denied the employment of such manipulation. He wondered if Draco really did feel that way, believed that Neville had the right to question his loyalties. Stepping over the back of the bench, he trailed after Blaise and Pansy, tugged along by the hand that Draco still clasped in his own.

The very hold itself made Harry smile; at the beginning of term, though there had been some pointed glances and even some frowns and whispered comments, such had gradually dwindled into nothingness. It was likely the novelty more than anything that drew attention. And for all of the potential compromise to his public face, Harry was glad that Draco didn't shy away from the handhold. As though he valued the contact more than he did people's opinions.

And that said a lot. Draco had only forsaken his public face when in the midst of the whiplash from the disaster that had befallen him. He was recovering, and with that recovery shied away from overt public displays of emotion, as was Malfoy procedure. Apparently handholding wasn’t considered a part of such coveted displays.

Harry couldn't even fathom the depths of grief and pain his friend had fallen into not three weeks ago. He had watched Draco, watched the sadness and heartbreak that had gripped him, and had done his best to comfort him with what little and seemingly inadequate gestures he knew. He had recognised the outbursts of anger as being simply a means to deal with that anger, recognised that it would likely pass in time. And they had, for the most part. But even so, Harry couldn't really relate. He’d never had anyone he felt especially close to pass away. He had never really been especially close to anyone at all.

There had been Uncle Vernon's father. He had died of a heart attack when Harry was seven. He hadn't seen much of it; when the family had come to his uncle's house for a visit, to share their grief. Harry had been locked in his cupboard throughout the entire mournful service. He had listened silently to the sobs that seeped through the crack beneath the door and pondered that he felt no such sadness himself. He hardly knew the man, and what he did know of him hadn't been particularly favourable. He was much like a carbon copy of Uncle Vernon, save perhaps a little older, a little slower, a little fatter. He had always smelt like potato chips.

Then there had been Mrs. Figg, the elderly neighbor who sometimes took care of him when the Dursleys thrust him upon her to take a family vacation. He had been ten when the woman had died. It was when he was making one of his infrequent stays in her care, too. The last day of the Dursleys’ trip to Ireland, he had wandered down the stairs to find the woman in the same seat she had filled when he had left to go to bed. She hadn't moved, her head lying back against the chair, eyes staring half-open at the ceiling and mouth slightly ajar. He knew, somehow, that she was dead. An aneurism, he overheard the paramedics say upon arrival. It had apparently been creeping up on her for some time.

It was sad. Truly, Harry was saddened by the fact. But he had not felt the overwhelming, debilitating grief that the Dursleys’ had shown at the loss of Grandfather Marvin, nor the lethargic, detached and listless sadness that had gnawed at Draco like a dog with a bone. Though she had been kind in an odd sort of way, Harry hadn't known Mrs. Figg well. It seemed sadder that he didn't know what happened to her multitude of cats after she was carted away, her house discarded into the hands of distant relatives. Mrs. Figg had loved those cats.

Did that make him a cold person? That he wasn't truly that upset at her death? Harry didn't know, and that saddened him slightly. He _did_ know, however, that he had been hurt by Lucius' death. Had felt an ache like a bruise delivered by Dudley to his chest when he saw Narcissa. Had cried for what had befallen Draco’s parent, and not only because for the first time he felt a keen and unprecedented loss for Lucius, a fear for the welfare of Narcissa. More than that, his heart had gone out to Draco, rarely one to overtly display his emotions, but who had been weighted down with a visible grief that had nearly consumed him. He had tried his utmost to support his friend, but knew that in the end Draco's recovery was simply something he had to attain for himself.

He'd never felt more helpless in his life, and there was a lot to be said for that. Harry had spent much of his life feeling helpless.

“Don't think so hard. I can hear you from all the way over here.”

Draco barely turned as he reprimanded Harry over his shoulder. Harry smiled. Yes, Draco was getting better. It was the most satisfying realisation he'd ever had.

Following on the heels of the Slytherins, Harry took the seat beside Draco in the empty classroom two hallways from the Great Hall. Ron, Hermione and Ginny were already seated, staring attentively at Neville. For his part, Neville stood before them like a scolding lecturer, leaning against the blackboard and glaring at his toes. Harry thought Neville would make a good teacher; he seemed to be doing an impressive job at keeping his anger under wraps yet simultaneously intimidating his ‘students’.

“First of all, you’re going to explain what you meant by that, Malfoy.” he growled. Harry sighed under his breath at the use of Draco’s last name. The two of them always resorted to such formal terms of address when irked by some doing of the other.

Draco leaned back in his seat, gazing contemplatively at Neville. He paused just long enough for Neville to open his mouth once more. “It’s no secret that we’ve had a tumultuous past, Neville.” Harry smiled at the deliberate use of first names. “Even last year we could hardly call our relationship amicable. It wasn’t even neutral.”

“Yes, but it’s not like I _really_ hated you or anything. Even with, you know… Umbridge.” A flicker of anger passed before Neville’s eyes and he rubbed his fingers unconsciously across the back of his left hand. Harry knew it for the spot boasting the white scars ‘I must not tell lies’ and felt himself frown at the connotations. He would have liked to meet this Umbridge woman. He had beheld nothing but cusses and seething hatred for her when her name arose, and if she had something to do with Neville’s scars…

Draco snorted. “Yes, well. I confess that following the orders of that _woman_ was not the finest decision I have made.” He sighed emphatically. “I suppose that my underlying inclination for doing the exact opposite of the Gryffindors got the better of my personal judgment. I’d like to think I’ve matured since then.”

Neville smiled grimly. “She was a despicable bitch.”

“That she was.” The shared empathy between the two boys was comical to witness. Harry wasn’t the only one trying to hide a smile. Hermione had to cover her mouth with a hand.

Neville’s smile, however, rapidly slid from his face. “Still, antipathy or not, I had thought we were at least bordering on friends after this year –“

“Oh, for goodness sake, Neville. Of course we’re friends.” Hermione didn’t need to cover her mouth anymore. The scowl she directed towards Neville could have put Ginny’s scolding in the Great Hall to shame. “Do you honestly doubt as much, after months and months of companionability?”

“There’s a difference between companionability and friendship,” Draco murmured quietly. His gaze stared unseeingly down at the desk before him. “Namely, the former implies simple cooperation to attain a common goal – a somewhat temporary state.”

“I disagree.” Hermione shifted her glare to Draco. “And besides, even if that were the correct definition, I believe we’ve moved past that.”

“Is it really possible to move past that which I, which my family, have done in the past so easily?” He spoke quietly, curiously, but Harry heard the faint hint of sadness in Draco’s words. He wasn’t sure if it was due to the referencing his parents or the prospect of the deterioration of the unsteady relationship he had developed with the Gryffindors.

Neville took a pointed step towards Draco’s table. He seemed to block everyone else out of the room; the conversation was just between the two of them and Harry felt himself immediately shunted to the position of ‘enraptured audience’.

“It is. And more than that, it has been. I haven’t harbored any grudge against your family since last year. Even,” he took a deep breath, glancing quickly towards Ginny in what appeared to be a plea of approval, “after what happened in second year. I believe that circumstances forced your father’s hand, and if there was any indication in his actions that he was, shall we say, _evil,_ his love of you definitely refuted the possibility.”

Harry had felt Draco’s violent flinch at the first mention of his father. The hold on his hand had tightened to a vice-like grip, though uncomfortable as it was Harry never considered asking Draco to let go. He clasped his fingers like a lifeline. Impossibly, they tightened further with the reference to second year. Harry wondered just exactly what had happened to his friends in the past and renewed his resolution to ask for a blow-by-blow. They seemed to have had more drama that a Muggle soap opera, more calamity than a criminal drama.

When Neville finished his speech, he stared pointedly at Draco. As though he had offered the Slytherin something and was awaiting Draco’s decision to either take it or leave it. Taking a deep, silent breath, Draco closed his eyes.

“I know. I know he wasn’t evil. My father –“ he faltered for a moment, and Harry squeezed his hand back supportively. He could almost feel Pansy’s longing to reach out and soothe Draco, but didn’t turn to confirm the suspicion. “My father was a good man. He just made bad decisions, decisions that dug him deeper and deeper into a dark well that had no steps with which he could climb back out.” He opened his eyes to meet Neville’s gaze. “But I would have thought that, especially after last year, you would have hated him. Hated me, too, as his son.”

Neville nodded slowly. “I might have.” He paused, frowning slightly. “I could have. He was at the Department of Mysteries, when we went last year to… well, when I thought I was going to save my dad. He was the one that kept asking me for the prophecy. I don’t know, maybe he was the one that was leading the Death Eaters.”

“Then why…?”

Clacking his teeth in an odd gnash, Neville glanced away. “Because, when the Death Eaters attacked us, he was the only one that didn’t.”

Silence met Neville’s words, hanging static in the air. Draco blinked rapidly. “What?”

“Your father. He didn’t attack us. Sure, he was after the prophecy, but he seemed more desperate than anything else. It was almost like he needed that prophecy, like Voldemort was holding something over his head to push him to get it.” Harry felt Draco flinch, saw Pansy and Blaise, Ron and Ginny, cringe at the name. Hermione impressively hardened her jaw and attempted nonchalance. _What is it about the name?_

“But it was more than that,” Neville continued. He ran a hand tiredly through his hair. As he did so his sleeve hitched slightly, revealing the dotting of bruises. Apparently catching his eye, Neville rubbed at them absently. “I could have been wrong, I don’t know. But when we were fighting and the Death Eaters were doing everything to corner us and block our exits, I could have sworn that your father was trying to help us. I’m sure he didn’t want us to escape with the prophecy, true, but at least once, I’m sure, he cast a Shield Charm to protect us from one of Bellatrix’s curses. I don’t know, maybe it was an especially deadly one or something, but he protected us nonetheless.”

“He could have just been protecting the prophecy.” Draco’s voice was small, more subdued than Harry had ever heard it. He seemed saddened by the possibility, however, as though he hoped he were wrong. That Neville was correct in his suspicions.

Shaking his head, Neville seemed to grow only more confident in his speculation with Draco’s refute. “No, I don’t think so. I was the one with the prophecy, but the Shield Charm protected all of us. I know that Bellatrix at least was furious at him, but I’m not sure if any of the rest of them even realised.” Shrugging slightly, Neville fixed Draco with his intense stare once more. “He might have used the ‘protecting the prophecy’ excuse to Voldemort, Draco, but I don’t believe it. I think he was protecting us, for whatever reason.”

A sorrowful pride arose in Draco’s gaze as he stared back at Neville. A longing, as intense as the confidence in Neville’s words.

“So that’s why you never turned him over.” Ron spoke up for the first time, a frown that wasn’t the slightest bit angry crinkling his eyebrows. “When the Ministry sent out the issues for arrest last summer. That’s why Malfoy’s name wasn’t in it.” He sent an apologetic glance at Draco for the bluntness of his words. The look passed straight over Draco’s head; he looked to be thinking far too intensely to respond to anyone at that moment.

“Are you… are you sure, Neville? I know you always try to see the good in people, but…” Ginny seemed to be waging an internal war. A hint of hatred faintly curled her lip, but there was openness in her gaze, as though she actually wanted to believe Neville’s words. Harry would have to attempt to gently pry that story out of Draco sometime too. Something had happened between Ginny and at least Lucius in the past, something that had angered her greatly.

Neville simply nodded. “Thanks, Ginny. I appreciate your faith.” He smiled a crooked grin, and she only looked mildly disgruntled at his words. “But really, I know what I saw. And I spent a long time thinking about it over the holidays, even after I’d made my report to the Aurors and Dumbledore.”

Nodding her head slowly, Harry watched as Ginny deliberately uncurled her lips and set them in a firm line. “Then… I can’t forgive or forget the past but I will try to move on. To see something better. I _want_ to.” She sounded like she was trying to convince herself more than anyone else.

Smiling gratefully once more, Neville reached out a hand, clasping Ginny’s as she followed suit and rising from her chair to plant herself beside him. “You’re wonderful, you know that?” And in front of them all, Neville leant forwards and offered the redheaded girl a soft kiss. She took it gladly.

“Aw, mate, come on. Not right in front of me.”

“Sorry, Ron,” Neville grinned sheepishly. Ginny didn’t look sheepish at all, only sending her brother an exaggerated roll of her eyes.

“I knew it. I knew it,” Pansy hissed not quite under her breath. “See, Blaise? I told you something had happened over Christmas. And even more, Ron’s actually accepting it.”

Hermione sniggered at the stage whisper. “It was sort of obvious.”

“Tell me about it,” Blaise drawled, grinning widely. “I mean, even overlooking the matching bracelets. Really, Neville, matching jewelry?”

Neville flushed a fiery red, though he didn’t make a move to hide his wrist that Harry turned his eyes to for the first time. A simply rose-gold chain bracelet dangled loosely from his wrist. Harry had noticed it before but never that Ginny was wearing an identical one. Which she was, he now noticed, turning towards the girl that shook her wrist to loosen the bracelet down to her hand unabashedly. _Maybe I just haven’t spent enough time with her lately._

“Alright, can we maybe move on? I’ve had enough of talking about my little sister’s love life.” Ron announced unnecessarily loudly. He looked thoroughly uncomfortable at the uplifting turn of the conversation and didn’t even smile when Hermione patted his arm consolingly.

The words had a profound effect on Ginny, however. Spinning her attention back from Blaise to Neville, she wrapped her fingers around his arm and squeezed tightly. Harry wondered if the wince was from the bruises she likely crushed or the sheer strength of her grip. Probably a bit of both.

“Yes, Neville, do tell. There are more important things to be discussing than something that is very definitely old news.” She spared a moment to glare at her brother, who shifted uncomfortably and muttered something about acting ‘too much like Mum to be natural’, before spearing Neville once more.

Nodding his head quickly, Neville accepted the inevitable with markedly less fuss than he could have. “Yes, we should… um… That’s what I asked you all here for anyway.” He stopped, cast a glance at the Slytherins and seemed to decide something. “Right, so nothing I say leaves this room, okay?”

“Honestly, Neville? After all the pouting you’ve been doing this morning about not being able to spread the word, I would have though you actually wanted the whole school to know just what you and the old man got up to.” Blaise grinned in a flash of white teeth.

“No, I do not. Promise, Blaise. I’m serious.”

“Alright, alright, _mi amico_. I was just joking. I’m swear upon my life and name as a Zabini.” He held his hand up with false solemnity, as though attending before a jury.

“Shove off, Zabini.’ Neville grumbled, but he smiled as he turned towards Harry, Draco and Pansy to similarly pull a promise from them. Draco appeared to have recovered from his deep thoughtfulness enough to partake in the proceedings once more. Which was a relief for Harry at least. He had feared that his friend may have sunken back into his brooding at the rawness of the discussion of his father.

“Alright. Okay. So.” Neville clapped his hands together, took a deep breath, and let it out with a gush of air that fluttered his fringe, briefly revealing his scar. “So for the past few months, I’ve been meeting up with Dumbledore.”

“We know.”

“Shut up, Blaise. What you don’t know is that I’ve been meeting with Dumbledore to look at memories. Memories of Voldemort, of when he was a child. Of certain events that Dumbledore witnessed – or memories that he was able to get a hold of – that have significance to Voldemort.”

“What kind of events?” Pansy asked, her voice quiet in her curiosity. She stared at Neville with a hungry gleam to her eyes. Harry felt the urge to hold her back for fear that she might launch herself at Neville in an attempt to wring the words from his throat.

“Things that we think were important to Voldemort. Things like… hold on, I’m saying this in all the wrong order.” Neville waved his hand before him, touching fingers tiredly to his head before continuing. “What you have to know is that what I, what me and Dumbledore, are trying to do is end Voldemort. And that’s not as simple as it sounds.”

“It doesn’t sound simple at all, Neville. We all know what an impossible task has been put before you.” Hermione’s tone was sympathetic, yet held a confidence in her friend that beamed through her words.

Neville smiled at her. “What I mean is, even killing Voldemort is not quite as simple as that. You see, Voldemort is obsessed. He’s obsessed with his own invincibility, but more it’s more than that. What I’ve come to realise is that he’s terrified of Death. He desperately wants to ensure his own immortality.”

“But that’s impossible, isn’t it? Wizards live longer than Muggles because of their magic, but immortality itself is impossible to attain.” Draco spoke up for the first time since he’d swum from the depths of his thoughts. It said a lot for how far he’d come in a week that he was mentally present enough to contribute after such a conversation. Not seven days ago and he would have been unresponsive for at least an hour.

“There was Nicholas Flamel,” Hermione pointed out with her usual scholarly tone. “The philosophers stone. You’ve read about it, haven’t you, Draco?”

 _The philosophers stone? That’s actually a real thing?_ Harry was nearly stunned at the revelation of the existence of a mythical stone that could actually induce immortality until his logic caught up with him. _No, not immortality. Just as Draco said, it’s completely impossible. Disregarding the use of ‘magic’, even assuming that it could extend one’s life marginally, the deterioration of an individual’s DNA can’t possible just be_ stopped. _There is no way to continue existing and living and_ not _grow old, to say nothing of death. Completely illogical…_ Satisfied with his own reasoning, Harry turned his attention back to Neville as he begun to speak once more.

“Yeah, the philosophers stone was one way he tried.” He glanced at Pansy as the girl squeaked in surprise. “It actually was real. But it’s destroyed now, has been for years. What he was looking for was something more permanent.

“Dumbledore suspected for a while what was going on. He thinks,” pausing, whether to ground himself or for effect, Harry didn’t know, “that Voldemort has made something called Horcruxes. It’s them that he’s using to ensure his immortality.”

The very word seemed to ring with foreboding and malice. It was probably just the way Neville said it, the accompanying look of darkness and dread that coloured his features. Glancing towards Ron and Hermione, Harry noted that neither of them appeared surprised at the revelation; similar shadowing flooded their own faces.

“Horcruxes?” Draco’s voice was respectfully quite. “I’ve never heard of them.”

“Unsurprising. We couldn’t find anything on them in the library, and we had Hermione.” The girl herself had the self-satisfaction to look smug at Neville’s words. “It’s Dark magic. Really dark. A Horcrux is an object that holds a piece of a witch or wizards soul.”

“His soul?” For once, no amusement tinged Blaise’s tone.

Neville nodded, his expression twisting sickeningly. “It basically works so that, in the event of Voldemorts death, part of him lives on in each of the objects he’s created so that he had been revived as need be.

“What I’ve been doing is working with Dumbledore to try and find out where he’s kept them hidden. I have a feeling that Dumbledore knows more than he’s telling me, but,” Neville shrugged, for all the world as though he couldn’t care less. “When we’re looking at the memories, we’re trying to work out both what the objects are and where he’s hidden them.”

“And you’ve found some, haven’t you? Or at least one.” Ginny dropped her eyes to Neville’s covered arm once more. Her grip had loosened to more of a gentle cradling now but her voice embodied the wonder and horror that Harry knew they all felt. “These bruises. They’re from when you went to get one, didn’t you? Last night, when you said Dumbledore was taking you somewhere?”

Neville nodded. “He found what he thought was a Horcrux. We took a visit, and there were some unpleasant surprises waiting for us.” He grinned ruefully down at his arm. “Inferi. They have surprisingly strong grips for supposedly being dead.”

“Inferi,” Hermione breathed softly, eyes widening but not nearly as much as Ron’s who looked at his friend with a mixture of awe and horror. “The raised bodies of the dead. Their main weakness: fire.”

“Yeah, I should have probably remembered that. I’ll know for next time.” Neville grinned wider, more sincere this time. Until he seemed to remember something and it slid like melting snow from his face. “It wasn’t really anything to worry about, though. Dumbledore sent them away. He was hurt much worse. There was this potion; he had to drink it.” Neville swallowed harshly, as though the memory truly pained him.

“Why was there so many booby traps if the Horcrux wasn’t there?” Harry spoke into the ensuing silence and all heads turned towards him. Most in surprise, but that wasn’t exactly uncommon. He was used to as much when he held his silence for long periods of time.

“Booby traps? What the hell are _booby_ traps?” Ron snorted.

Hermione overrode him with, “what? No Horcrux? What -?”

“You picked that up, huh, Harry?” Neville sighed heavily. “Yeah, there was no Horcrux. It was a fake. Someone else had already taken the real one.” He stared disconsolately at his feet for a minute before visibly shrugging off his melancholy. “Well, no harm, no worries, right? A few bumps and bruises, and I’d reckon Dumbledore will be sleeping for a couple of days straight, but otherwise.” He shrugged.

Hermione frowned, not letting Neville escape from questioning so easily. “Well, what happened to the real one?”

Neville shrugged again. “Dunno. Dumbledore said he’d think about it.”

“And the rest?” Hermione pushed, leaning forward in her seat eagerly. “You said some have been destroyed already. What was it that you said, Rowena’s diadem?”

“Yeah, the tiara. I found that one myself, actually.”

Harry started, blinking in surprise. “What, not the tiara you found in the Room of Requirement?”

Again, all eyes turned towards him. Draco’s eyebrows nearly disappeared into his hair before he snorted and shook his head. “Of course you saw it.”

Neville was similarly shaking his head ruefully. “Y-eah. It was a lucky break, that one. Stumbled across it and all.”

“And the diary,” Hermione continued, picking up where she left of. Her sickly cast, the paleness to her face that had settled on everybody’s features, had dimmed slightly. Her thumb and index finger were raised, counting them off. “Tom Riddle’s diary that you stabbed with a basilisk fang.”

 _A basilisk fang?_ Really, there was so much Harry needed to ask Neville about. He didn’t get the chance, however, as Neville was already nodding in agreement. “That’s two. Then we thought there was Slytherins locket – the one me and Dumbledore went to try and salvage last night – but it was a fake.”

“That’s three.” Hermione paused in her counting, and a speculative cast took over her face. ‘Neville. Just how many did you say there were?’

“We’ve worked out that he made seven. Or that’s what Dumbledore thinks.”

“Didn’t the memory from Slughorn tell you anything more?”

“What?” Pansy glanced between Neville and Hermione in confusion, as though they spoke a different language. “Slughorn knows about this? That old man, who doesn’t seem to have any more sense than a Dungle bird in a rose garden?”

Ron and Neville snickered at the reference that Harry only sighed at. Dungle birds weren’t _that_ stupid. “Yeah, well, maybe he just didn’t know it,” Ron grinned. “Neville managed to get the memory out of him, though. With a little bit of luck.” He snickered again, and Harry got the impression there was definitely something more to that story.

“Oh, stop it, both of you,” Hermione scolded, turning a glare upon the both of them. “This is hardly a time to be joking. Neville has just told us that there are seven Horcruxes. Seven. That means at least another four that we don’t even know.”

“Two, actually. Dumbledore found another one – a ring – and he destroyed it. And then there was the one that brought him back to life as he is now.”

“Oh, yes. That.” Hermione frowned in thought. “That still makes two that we don’t have a clue about, though.”

 _“We_ don’t,” Ron muttered, rolling his eyes at Hermione. “I’d bet Dumbledore would have a few ideas up his sleeve, though.” Neville nodded silently in agreement but only shrugged and shook his head as Hermione raised her eyebrow at him questioningly.

“But I… I don’t understand.” Pansy appeared to be on a different page entirely to the rest of them. Her eyebrows were wrinkled in confusion and worry, and she seemed to be wracking her brain for something that wasn’t there. “He _made_ these things, these _Horcruxes._ And what, so now he can’t die?”

“How did he even make them?” Blaise added, looking nearly as deep in thought as Pansy. “I’ve never heard of them before, and, well, the Zabini’s are quite learned in the Dark Arts.” He offered a token grin at that, but even that seemed more muted than usual.

An ominous ambiance settled over the room. The Gryffindor’s shared a meaningful glance between them, all except Ginny who seemed just as confused as Harry and the Slytherins but nervous at the darkening of the mood nonetheless.

“Well, you see, that’s the thing. Not just anyone can make a Horcrux. It needs a… a…”

“Catalyst,” Hermione supplied as Neville struggled to find a term.

“Yeah, a catalyst. A trigger, to break off part of the soul.”

“And that is?” Pansy’s voice was nearly a whisper and, oblivious as Harry was to the answer to the question he had the feeling that she knew before she asked.

Neville’s face darkened to a ferocity Harry had never witnessed before. As though spitting out a curse, he muttered ‘murder.’

If the painful grip of Draco’s fingers on his hand was any indication, Harry wasn’t the only one who felt nauseated at the prospect.

* * *

After the Horcrux Discussion, things changed in what had once simply been the sixth year study group. It was subtle enough that it brooked no comment, but there was added ease between the friends that Harry had not experienced before. It made their brief uneasiness at the beginning of term seem like a brief, unpleasant dream.

It was a bit of a rude awakening, however, to finally learn just what exactly Neville had been learning with Dumbledore. The Horcruxes themselves were horrifying and confusing enough – Harry wasn’t sure how much confidence he had in the concept of a ‘soul’ to sit subjectively on the matter – not to mention that Neville was reportedly hunting them down. Harry felt a distinct and growing concern at the thought of his friend putting himself in danger like that. The lingering image of the bruising on Neville’s arms flickered into his mind on frequent intervals. What would happen if he was injured again? Or what if it was worse next time? Harry thrust the niggling thought away with ferocity, knowing there was little he could do about it, but it always returned.

What he found the most confronting about the conversation was the Neville’s explanation of how Horcruxes were made. He knew he wasn’t alone in this discomfort, too. The injury of another person, another being in general, had never sat well with Harry; perhaps it was the memory of his own unfortunate experiences with pain that drove him to detest the infliction so greatly. The idea of intentionally hurting someone seemed… illogical. Horrible. Satanic, even.

Sure, there were times when people simply had no other choice; Harry could never falter to affirm that self-defense was a more than justifiable cause for injuring another, so long as it was genuine. He just couldn’t really see himself doing it, no matter how long he thought about it. Harry knew that mental block was what prevented him from casting offensive spells. Or defensive spells, apparently. He just couldn’t do anything about it.

So the very idea of murder was worse than abhorrent. And more than that, Voldemort had apparently done so in a cool frame of mind, completely calculated and with no drive behind the killing other than to satisfy his own sick desire for immortality.

And not just once. Oh no, the man wouldn’t settle for _one_ Horcrux. He needed seven. _Seven people_ he had murdered with that cold-hearted consideration. Hermione had suggested it was likely due to the superstition that seven was a powerful magical number. Harry remembered reading as much, and knew the superstition was basically lore in many Wizarding circles. The knowledge didn’t help at all., however If anything, it made him feel worse. Voldemort knew exactly what he was doing, planned and prepared his actions and anticipated killing more. That was something darker even than the wayward murders of innocents the stories spoke of in hushed tones. The man – no, the creature – took insanity to a whole new level.

Harry had not been the only one horrified. Ron and Hermione, even aware of the process of forming a Horcrux, similarly expressed their disgust. Draco had paled in that blank-faced way he did and gritted his teeth as though he could crush the evil creature between his jaws, while Blaise looked on the verge of nausea. Ginny had quivered for a moment, then pushed aside her own fears to offer a consoling arm to Neville, who appeared to have sunken into a brooding sullenness after his explanation.

Surprisingly, it was Pansy who had been the most vocal in her disgust. Harry saw a side to the girl that he never had before.

“Disgusting! What a filthy, wretched, fucked up bastard he is. I swear, even if I’m terrified out of my skin, I will make certain to rip him limb from limb if I _ever_ see that snake.” The Slytherin girl seethed with such heat that the air seemed to warm around her. A flush coloured her cheeks and her dark eyes flashed like lightning through storm clouds. Even Blaise, already struggling with his nauseous, had sidled away from her slightly. Harry was tempted to do the same.

After Neville had extracted another promise from them all – even Ginny, Ron and Hermione were included this time – the group had left for Defense Against the Dark Arts, parting from Ginny at the staircase leading to the Charms classrooms. They had arrived just in time, walking in a moment before Snape had opened his mouth to begin his monotonous recitation of the day’s program. The Defense professor had raised an eyebrow at their belated entrance, but had spoken no words of reprimand.

No one spoke of their discussion in the days following. It hung over them like a heavy cloud, awaiting the ideal moment to break and drown them all in a wash of chilling water, but as one they all remained silent. It felt like they would be making it that little bit more real if their fears were spoken aloud. Pansy, however, surprising them all once more, plopped herself down next to Neville the several days later and pinned him with a firm stare.

“Neville.” She sounded like she was giving a formal public announcement, but her words were muted, directed to Neville specifically. Harry could only just hear them. “I want you to know that I really appreciate you telling me – telling us – and bringing us into your confidence. And it might not mean much, but I also want you to know that if you ever need any help in regards to such matters, any help at all, I will willingly offer it to you to the best of my ability.”

Neville stared at her in blank shock. His mouth hung open slightly, toast raised halfway to his lips nearly slipping from his fingers. “Um…” He paused, looking towards Ron and Hermione for a moment before turning back towards Pansy. “Thanks, Pansy. I really appreciate it.”

Pansy nodded, satisfied, and turned towards the spread before her. She proceeded to pile her plate with scrambled eggs as though she had not just rocked Neville at her side off his axis. It was the first time she had sat directly next to the Golden Boy – at least when she initiated it – but it wasn’t the last time that week.

It was because of this distraction, leaving them all relatively subdued, that when Saturday morning arrived and the mail with it no one even glanced overhead in search of potential correspondents. Well, except Draco, but he got daily reports of his mother’s progress so it was hardly surprising that he would keep an eye out. The barn owl that landed gracefully before him, however, was nearly crushed not moments later by a much larger bird that was definitely not an owl. Said bird drew the eyes of all of Harry’s friends – and just about everyone at the table too – in a mixture of bemusement and curiosity.

“Draco, you appear to have acquired a mutant raven.” The disdain in Pansy’s voice couldn’t quite hide her surprise.

Draco frowned, sharing a glance with Harry as they both moved to tug their breakfast plates out of the way of the rather uncoordinated bird. It did appear to be a raven, but was much larger than any Harry had ever seen before. It rivaled some of the larger owns that soared overhead and didn’t appear fazed by the mass of predatory birds in the slightest.

“I think that’s one of my mother’s birds. But I didn’t know she used them anymore; she doesn’t really like the beasts. She says they’re far too smart and that leads to too much independence.” He paused, peering underneath he mass of black feathers at dark, scaled feet. Harry followed his gaze and noticed too the scroll rolled tightly and secured firmly to its leg. “She can’t even write again yet. I can’t imagine who would be using her birds.”

Sharing another worried glance with Harry, Draco reached towards the raven. Surprisingly, the bird took one look at him, croaked, and danced sideways a few uncoordinated stumbles. Or appeared to, but a moment later it became apparent that the loping step was much more intentional.

“Harry, you appear to have acquired a mutant raven.” Blaise parroted Pansy’s words to the enunciation, to the very level of surprise that had coloured her tone. Harry stared at the Italian boy for a moment before returning his gaze to the raven. It stared back at him with intelligent eyes, croaked once more and promptly held out its leg.

Harry had never received a letter by owl before. He’d unburdened his share of letters under Draco’s name as the other boy was often more concerned with eating at mail delivery hour than with relieving the owls of their duty. As such, it was not as though Harry didn’t know what to do. It was apprehension that stayed his hand.

“Draco?”

The blonde looked towards him. Perhaps he noted the confusion and uneasiness that steadily grew within Harry, for his expression immediately cleared of any of his own unease; he even offered a smile. “Well? Are you going to untie it? I want to know who sent you something; you didn’t buy by mail order or something, did you?”

Harry shook his head, frowning, but the simple words did help. He actually felt less worried. He knew Draco’s calm was all an act, but still. His curiosity wasn’t alone; Hermione, Ron and Neville were all peering questioningly at the bird and though Pansy studiously fastened her gaze upon unfolding a letter of her own but she too flickered her glance towards the strange bird every few moments.

Reaching forwards, Harry untied the twine from the bird’s leg. As soon as the parchment was free, the bulky black bird hobbled across the table, nearly treading footprints through platters of food, snagged a sausage from Blaise’s plate and launched itself into the sky.

“Hey!” Blaise was so surprised he dropped his fork. “Don’t steal my food, you ruddy bird!”

“Blaise, quite down. You’re making a scene.” Pansy didn’t even turn from her own letter spread on the table before her as she reprimanded his behavior. Her attention seemed resolutely averted from the scene once more.

“But Pan-sy, you saw what it did? Walked right past a whole plate – a whole plate – of sausages and took mine. What the hell is with that?”

“Maybe it didn’t appreciate your criticism,” Pansy replied, daintily scooping up a sliver of bacon and folding it into her mouth, eyes still glued on the letter. She ignored both the fact that Blaise had simply mimicked her criticism and the ensuing grumbles from the boy.

For his part, Harry had been only distantly aware of the raven’s departure and his friends’ banter. He unrolled the parchment roll almost reverentially and with difficulty began to decipher the scrawl.

_Dear Harry,_

_I have been warned – no, that word suggests that I am doing something wrong and stupid – it has been suggested that I refrain from writing to you until I have discussed with Dumbledore the most appropriate approach to initiating a correspondence with you. However, it seemed to me to be taking too long. Remus has cautioned me that you don’t know me, and so won’t even understand or likely believe half of what I wish to tell you. But I can’t help myself, Harry, I must speak to you._

_You may have heard of me or you may not. I hope it is the latter, as what you have heard is likely nothing good. Though my name has been cleared of false accusations for nearly three years, the weight of suspicion still lies upon me. Suffice to say that rumors are simply rumors and that I, as a person, do not assume them._

_But I am getting ahead of myself. Harry, my name is Sirius. I was – and still consider myself to be – one of your father’s closest friends. We went to school together, and he was dearer to me than my own family. A brother, of sorts, and in being such that would make me your uncle of sorts too. But even aside from that, I am formally and legally something other; upon your birth, Harry, I was given the great gift of being appointed your godfather._

_I have met you before, though it would be a miracle if you remembered me. You were only a baby at the time, but I still remember you so clearly. I swear, Harry, that even though James and I were limited in our relatedness in that it was not by blood, from the moment I laid eyes on you, you were my nephew. I was the one who gave you your first broom, did you know that? Or, well, do you even know about broomsticks, or quidditch, or anything the likes? Remus told me he’s been talking to McGonagall. She’s explained a few things, about how you lived with your Muggle family and all._

_I just want you to know, Harry, that the reason I haven’t come to see you was simply because, well, the law forbade me from doing so. ~~Please don’t think anything crazy about that, it’s nothing horrendous.~~ ~~Or maybe it is, but~~ \- Dammit, I can’t seem to say this right. What I really mean is that if I could have come to see you, Harry, I would have. Years ago. If I could have, I would have requested custody after what happened to your parents. I am your godfather, after all. But then, when I finally got the, um, legal permission to have contact with you, you’d already moved to Paris. And when I spoke to Dumbledore, he said that you’d chosen to be apart from the Wizarding world, and that meeting you would be a disruption of the life you had chosen._

_I don’t know much about what happened, or who this Stephen Defaux is. I can only hope he treated you well and loved you even half as much as I would have. But then, Remus said something about you not living with him anymore. And that you’ve obviously decided to come into the Wizarding world and learn of your heritage. I can’t help wondering what made you change your mind, but that can wait until we meet._

_Because we will meet. I swear, Harry, I have done my utmost in these past four weeks since I learned you were a part of our world once more to renew contact. Everything short of walking straight up to the castle, which, I have been assured, is pointless as Dumbledore has apparently erected some Repulsion Charms to strangers or something. You need a formal invitation or something to enter. He said it wasn’t just for me, that the Charm has been up for centuries, but I’m not sure I entirely believe him. I wouldn’t put it past old Dumbledore._

_Regardless, I will meet you, just as soon as I am able to. There is so much to talk about, so much to tell you and so much for me to ask. I hope that you won’t be too shocked by this letter; it’s only now that I’m realizing you might not take so kindly, or even believe, the words of someone you don’t even know. I hope that you’ll have a little bit of faith and just wait for a little longer. Everything will be explained properly soon._

_With love,_

_Sirius Black_

Harry read through the letter only once. He couldn’t take his eyes from the name at the bottom to read it again. Not that he needed to. His memory latched onto the messy scrawl with the precision that it always did and replayed the words in his mental voice in a dull and muted replay.

It was a blur. He couldn’t think straight. He wasn’t sure if he was in shock or simply very, very confused. It didn’t really make sense to him. Of course Harry had heard of Sirius Black, to the denial of the man’s claims of his ignorance. He’d heard he was a convicted criminal, but that three years ago the true culprit of the crime had been found and Sirius’ name cleared of all charges. Harry had to question the consistency and effectiveness of the Wizarding judicial system upon reading of the man; it seemed a rather horrifying situation, and from what he had heard, Sirius had received little to no compensation for the apparently unprecedented and very inaccurate claim to his criminal actions. Freedom didn’t seem like compensation enough for getting out of prison. Even the little Harry had read of Azkaban made his skin crawl, and that was without looking at the more graphic pictures that accompanied such descriptions.

Harry didn’t get a chance to think further, however, for Draco, apparently finding his patience had been tested enough for one day, shuffled up the bench and peered at the letter. “Who’s it from?”

Wordlessly, Harry handed the letter to his friend. Draco took it slowly, sparing a moment to look at Harry in worry, before turning to the words. Harry watched the faint quirks of Draco’s face as he read the letter. The changes were small, but he could still read them easily enough. Worry became surprise, which morphed into confusion, then finally crept into a cold anger that caused him to raise one eyebrow and stare down at the letter as though it were plastered with a rather artful arrangement of crushed beetles rather than the black scrawl that painted its length.

With the same measured slowness with which he had taken the letter from Harry, Draco turned back towards him. Front on, his anger was even more apparent. “Sirius Black?”

Harry nodded slowly. “Apparently he’s my godfather.”

Draco’s jaw snapped shut with an audible click. Chin jutting in with the same petulance Harry had seen at several instances over the Christmas holidays, Draco turned his eyes once more to the letter. “Well, at least now we know why he was using Mother’s ravens.”

“Why?”

“Giga ravens are specially bred by the Black family; my mother’s family, before she was married.” Draco’s nose twitched, as though attempting to clear a rather unfortunate smell from his nostrils. “I should have guessed it would be something along these lines.”

Harry didn’t comment on Draco’s anticipated infallibility. His friend was angry, and he didn’t think such words would do anything to alleviate the encroaching situation. As it turned out, he didn’t need to say anything. Draco was more than adept at continuing his rant.

“The nerve of him, to say as much. What, he thinks that you’ll just greet him with open arms? Someone who claims to care for you so much but hasn’t been to see you even though he’s had the opportunity to for years?”

“He did say that he was told I was with my uncle. And that I had rejected the Wizarding world.” Harry spoke in a quiet voice, aware of a couple of heads not belonging to his friends turning towards them already. Draco still heard him, and only seemed incensed by his words.

“And what, a simple trip to Paris was so hard? Just for a short visit?” Draco’s scowl was fully pronounced now. “And what’s this, claiming such a connection to your father. What, does he think that it will naturally mean he has a connection to you too?”

Harry couldn’t really understand it. He’d seen Draco angry more times than he could count over the past two weeks. This seemed different however. Almost like he was angry at _Harry,_ though no, that wasn’t quite right.

“Four weeks, he says. Four weeks? Why four weeks? When –“ Draco cut off abruptly, and understanding dawned on his face with the same speed as a truly menacing frown. “Four weeks ago we visited the hospital.” Flicking his glance towards Harry, Draco frowned even deeper. “Did you see him? Black, did you see him or something? He must have seen you, or otherwise he wouldn’t have…”

Shaking his head, Harry could only listen in baffled silence as Draco continued to rant. It sounded like it was Draco that had been offended, yet for the life of him Harry couldn’t see how even if the letter had been addressed to Draco that it would have been offensive. It was messy, yes, and a little disjointed, even a little bit confronting in its bluntness, but the words were by no means offensive.

But even though he couldn’t understand Draco’s anger, Harry let his friend ride it out. Which he did, and seemed to forcibly thrust the letter from his forethought when the anger had purged itself from his system. Harry quickly stowed it away beneath the cover of a book in his rooms when he got the chance, just in case. The words of the letter still rung in his head, but they weren’t particularly concerning. They didn’t ask anything of him, and other than confusing him there was no harm in them.

That was until, not two days later, another bird delivered a letter to Harry at breakfast. This one at least was an owl, a little grey-flecked thing with wide yellow eyes and tufted eyebrows. It was, very distinctly, awaiting the attention of Harry. Draco had stared at the bird flatly until it flew away, leaving the letter in its wake. Harry was not entirely sure the owl wasn’t driven away by the intensity of the stare.

This letter was much shorter and far more legible. Still, Harry was left in a similar state of frozen silence after reading its words.

_Harry,_

_I have a proposition for you. I believe that some days ago you received a letter from one Sirius Black? If you should so desire, I am having a meeting with Sirius and Remus Lupin, of whom you are as yet unfamiliar with, this evening at five o’clock. Should you wish to meet them, I would be more than happy to accommodate your presence. I’m sure that both Sirius and Remus would be delighted to meet you._

_Please, feel no obligation to attend. The decision is entirely up to you._

_Albus Dumbledore._

Harry didn’t notice that Draco had sidled up beside him until the letter was torn from his fingers. It was only when the ball of parchment was placed flatly on the table that he realised Draco had snatched it from him and promptly crumpled it into the size of a golf ball.

“Why… did you do that?”

Draco didn’t reply. Instead, he abruptly stood, stepped over the back of his chair, and leaned down briefly to murmur ‘follow me’ into Harry’s ear. Harry was barely on his feet by the time his friend swept through the doors of the Great Hall, nearly gliding with the smoothness of his stride. The speed gave away his agitation, however.

Sharing a surprised glance with Pansy, Blaise and the Gryffindors across the table, Harry rose quickly and following Draco into the Entrance Hall. As soon as he stepped through the doors, he nearly started as his friend turned suddenly to face him. “You’re not going.”

It took a moment for the words to register to Harry. “What?”

“To meet him. Them. You’re not going.” It was an order, not a question. Not even a suggestion.

Harry swallowed back the sudden tightness in his throat. Draco eyed at him with a penetrating stare, an expression Harry had never seen on him before. He wasn’t sure he liked it at all. “What? Why? Draco, please don’t just –“

“It’s stupid and ridiculous. The man has nothing to do with you, hasn’t for the past sixteen years of your life, and now he wants to waltz in and take up residence in your life?” Draco huffed a disparaging laugh, and Harry couldn’t tell rightly whom it was for. “How ridiculous.”

This wasn’t Draco. At least, not the Draco Harry knew, anyway. And even more confusingly, it wasn’t the Draco he had come to know, the one who was gripped in a spider web of grief either. No, this was someone else entirely, and it made Harry a little scared to be the focus of that intense, dark gaze.

Scared and, surprisingly, a little angry.

He’d rarely felt that emotion before. Harry had realized not long ago that it only arose when someone actually _threatened_ Draco, and it was something that he’d come to associate with protectiveness. He had certainly never felt it _towards_ Draco before. But this… this was definitely anger. Of a different kind perhaps, but a thread definitely from the same fabric.

“Why are you saying this? What, don’t you think I’m capable enough of meeting them?” It was the only explanation Harry could think of.

Draco growled, muttering something unintelligible under his breath. “It’s not a question of your capability –“

“Then what? You doubt my capacity to make decisions for myself? Do you think I’m so infantile that I need someone else to do that for me?” The anger was rising, and it was so unfamiliar that Harry didn’t know what to do with it. He felt his cheeks begin to warm.

“Infantile?” Draco snorted. “No, I don’t think you’re infantile. I just think that you don’t know what you’re getting yourself into by considering it.”

“Did I ever say I was considering it?”

Draco paused, confusion replacing some of his own illogical anger. “You’re not?’”

“I didn’t say that either.”

“Then you are? Dammit, Harry, you don’t even know these people. And one of them was a convicted criminal –“

“Proven innocent.”

“That makes no difference in regard to the fact that the man has been in Azkaban for twelve years! He is likely already insane. Very likely, given the contents of the letter he sent you.” Draco’s hands had balled into fists, and a faint redness flushed his usually pale cheeks.

“There was nothing wrong with the letter, Draco, and you know it. He sounded perfectly sane.” Harry’s own voice was rising, rising in a way that had also never happened before. So much that he could hear a faint echo of it rebounding off the walls of the Entrance Hall.

“That _man_ is not sane. Surely you can’t be so ignorant as to assume that a modicum of sanity remains in him after his imprisonment.”

Harry curled his own fingers into fists, until his nails dug into his palms. “So I’m just supposed to ignore him, someone who is likely the closest thing to family I have, because of the slight possibility of him being mentally unstable?”

“Slight? _Slight_ possibility?” Draco raked his fingers through his hair in a motion that Harry knew – though didn’t particularly care at that moment – meant he was on the writhing in extreme agitation. “You’re an idiot if you think there’s even a chance of him having a sane head on his shoulders. And family?” Draco snorted. “You want family so badly? Why, because your actual family has treated you so well up until now?”

Harry couldn’t breathe. It was an unspoken agreement that they didn’t talk about Harry’s family, his past. Not that they had discussed such an agreement. It just was. But Draco had kicked violently at that wall of privacy, of protection, and the echoes of his words still rung both around the Hall, morphing in Harry’s ears.

“What did you just say?”

Draco had the decency to look slightly abashed. He didn’t apologise for his words, however. Rather, they seemed to have opened a floodgate that preceded the rest simply spilling out. “I just don’t understand why you care so much about your ‘family’. They treated you like shit, Harry. You know that, even though you won’t accept it, not even to yourself.”

“Stop it.”

“And now your stumbling after some stranger at the mere suggestion that he might be related to you, though not even by blood? Can’t you see how twisted that is?’

“Stop it. Please, stop. Stop talking.” It was getting hard to breathe. The air was distinctly warmer, thicker, like a constricting blanket. Harry gasped a breath, tried to speak. “Twisted… it’s not –“

Draco barreled over him. The Slytherin’s voice hissed like a snake. “Are you so desperate for a _family_ that you’ll accept just anyone. If so, what about me? What about my mother? Weren’t we good enough for you? No, it must be family, even if they treat you like a slave, like their personal whipping post–“

“Stop –“

“– they didn’t care about you –“

“ _Please stop_ –!“

“– if you could just open your eyes –“

“STOP IT! STOP! JUST STOP!’ His throat felt like it had clamped shut. His skin tingled painfully. The room seemed to spin on an angle and spilling out of him in waves was not only anger but magic. Pure, undirected magic. “I can’t… you just… _Pour une fois dans votre vie_ , Draco, stop _talking!”_

It was loud. So loud that Harry couldn’t hear his own thoughts over the words resounding in his ears, in his skull. His own words. He felt angry, so angry that he hardly ever realised it was anger. He couldn’t see Draco through the blur in his eyes, and he wasn’t sure if the fog was from tears of sadness or frustration. The slice of fingernails into his palms, into the skin of his collarbones that he had unknowingly taken tearing at, was painful. But it was a good pain. A slight distraction from his fury.

_How could he say that? I thought he would never say that, not him. Why, why would he have to bring that up? I thought he would never –_

“You don’t know anything! Stop talking like that! Why do you even care who I see? Who I talk to? It’s not going to hurt you, Draco, so just let me make a choice for once!”

Draco looked stunned, as though he had been slapped. Which, if the lingering waves of magic rippling through the air were any suggestion, he likely had been. The analogy of a deer caught in the headlights had never seemed more accurate. Harry breathed heavily, his throat raw at the unexpected strain his voice had undergone. He could never, ever remember speaking so loudly. Yells just didn’t escape his mouth.

He didn’t care. At that moment, he was just so _frustrated._ Why did Draco have to say that? Bring up the dark, dirty parts of his past and throw it in his face when he already felt such uncertainty? Why did he have to order him around without compromise, without even pausing to question Harry’s choice in the matter? Harry had never been given a choice, not really. Not since that one fated instance when he was eleven. And not again until Dumbledore had offered him the chance to make a decision that would radically change his life nearly a year ago.

Why, why did _Draco_ have to bring it up? He had always been so gentle, so supportive of Harry when it came to his circumstances. _Why…?_

And suddenly the anger left him and an overwhelming sadness, a bone-weary tiredness, washed over him. The film across his eyes had become an upwelling of full-blown tears that threatened to spill down Harry’s cheeks. Humiliatingly, Harry felt his chin begin to quiver with the suppressed emotion. He tucked his head to his chest, struggling to hide the torrent of emotions. He squeezed his eyes together tightly. _Don’t cry, don’t cry, please don’t cry, don’tcrydon’tcrydon’tcry…_

He desperately wished for Lyssy.

“Harry… Harry, I’m –“

“Leave me alone, please, Draco.” His voice was a croaking whisper. From emotion or in the aftermath of his shout, Harry didn’t know.

“Harry…”

He couldn’t take it. He felt Draco take a step towards him, felt a hand hesitantly reach for his shoulder, and in an act of uncharacteristic aggression batted it way. The slap rung nearly as loudly as his shout had in the Hall. Draco bodily stumbled a step backwards.

In turn, Harry spun on his heel and fled up the nearest staircase. He wasn’t sure where he ran. He didn’t really care. Harry just wanted, for the first time since he’d met him, to be away from Draco. To be utterly alone, just like he had been for so much of his life. Loneliness was comfortable. It was familiar.

It was safe.

Thankfully, Draco let him make that decision all by himself.


	23. Familiar Strangers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Thank you to every awesome commenter! I received some wonderfully fantastic words from such wonderfully fantastic readers, and I cherish each and every one of them. Thank you thank you thank you!!

From her seat at Dumbledore’s right hand, not quite behind the desk but not in front of it either, Minerva stared flatly at the two men. They were a sight, the both of them, for sure, and the slightly frantic gleam mirrored in both of to their eyes didn’t do anything to help the disparaging impression. Remus had tidied himself up – though he always looked respectably neat – yet despite his tidiness looked even more worn now than usual. The deep smudges under his eyes didn’t do him any favors. The full moon was two days past, but he still looked to be on the verge of weary collapse.

Sirius had actually made an attempt at cleaning himself up too. That in itself was remarkable. The man had never been the same since he’d escaped from Azkaban, not even after the assignation of the reprieve he’d been officially assigned from the Ministry. Minerva recalled how Sirius had been nearly snarling at the cordial and only mostly genuine apology that Kingsley had delivered it to him. Only Remus’ swift fingers had saved the parchment from being ripped to shreds.

Minerva couldn’t blame him. Sorry? It hardly seemed adequate.

But the man looked almost well groomed for once. He had lost most of the haggardness of prison life over the past three years, though the crazed aura still lingered. The long, matted hair that looked to have never seen a brush hadn’t helped with the effect.  
When he had stepped through the Floo that afternoon, however, Minerva had been surprised not only by the elegant if slightly dated robes he wore but also at the significant lack of matted hair. Sirius appeared to have been attacked by a Chopping Charm, albeit quiet successfully, and it now hung just past his ears. He’d even gotten rid of that patchy beard that had smeared his chin and cheeks; barely a scratching of stubble remained. Narrowing her eyes as she peered at him, Minerva thought she could see a hint of the handsome young man he had once been.

Though admittedly, the attractiveness was somewhat impeded by lasting frantic cast to his features that only grew slightly more so with anger as Dumbledore spoke.

“What do you mean, ‘not treated quite as hoped’?” Sirius growled in a rumble that Minerva believed was directly assumed from his Animagus form. The man turned dark eyes to his friend. “Remus, what does he mean?”

Remus ignored the question and stared penetratingly at Dumbledore. Unlike Sirius, he was usually quite adept at showing restraint “Was Harry mistreated, Dumbledore? Is that what you’re telling us?”

Whipping his head around, Sirius shot daggers at the headmaster. Minerva respected Dumbledore all the more for remaining unflinching under such a glare. She could not claim to manage half as well; there was too much of Azkaban still left in Sirius to have total confidence in his levelheadedness. “Well? Is that what you mean?”

Inclining his head, Dumbledore fixed his gaze upon his crossed fingers. As he had been doing so frequently since the sickness had been expunged, he rubbed wrinkled fingers across the smooth skin of his healed hand. “I will not go into detail, Sirius, Remus. Pray, allow my word that Harry has been through much but shall never be subjected to such treatment again be sufficient explanation.”

Minerva cringed slightly at the headmaster’s words. It was not the approach she would have taken; directly telling Sirius that Harry’s family had mistreated him was probably not the best way to broach the subject. Sirius had become something of a listless shell since Pettigrew had been sentenced to the Kiss, broken only rarely by sporadic and random outbursts of anger. He only really seemed animated when out in the field on an Order mission, but then the opposite was of concern. Sirius threw himself into fights, into danger, with reckless abandon, as though he cared not whether he lived or died.

 _It’s very likely he doesn’t_ , Minerva considered. He had been a shattered man after James and Lily’s deaths, since Pettigrew’s betrayal and the subsequent attack of Bellatrix Lestrange. His sworn vengeance was – according to Remus – the only thing that had kept him going. And when that vengeance was fulfilled…

_But now he has Harry. _Or at least the idea of Harry._ _

Truthfully, Minerva wished that Remus had consulted Dumbledore before telling Sirius of his godson’s return to the Wizarding world. Or at least that someone else had been there when he had broken the news. But Remus had been too excited, too eager to share his discovery, and hadn’t fully considered how his words may effect the recovering wizard. It was one of the few times he had acted so irrationally, and he had since claimed that the fall out was a perfect demonstration of exactly why he was so cautious.

Sirius had taken to the news like a hound to a scent. Had it not bordered so closely upon obsessive, Minerva would have been satisfied that this newfound purpose had filled Sirius’ life. But his eagerness seemed to disregard protocol, or even Harry’s input in the matter; Sirius wanted to see his godson, wanted to know him, and simply nothing else was as important as that. The school had managed to screen incoming owls for letters, hoping to calm, to steady his eagerness slightly before meeting Harry. Until he’d sent the giga raven, anyway. And there was never any stopping one of the headstrong black beasts.

After that, Dumbledore been forced into deciding. Minerva knew it strained him; the elderly wizard was so focused at present upon the war, upon He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, that anything aside from that was simply an unnecessary distraction. Not that he didn’t care for the boy; Minerva knew this fact for a certainty. Dumbledore seemed to have taken to Harry much like everyone else had. It was so uncanny, that the quiet, unassuming boy should slip so easily into the folds of the Hogwarts student body, so much so that Minerva could almost have considered it magical. Dumbledore was similarly curious at this phenomenon, but again, it was not a priority. Quite simply, there were more important, worldlier concerns than the reunion of a man and his godson.

In his hard-backed wooden chair, Sirius was displaying his overt eagerness in the form of fierce protectiveness, angered on part of his godson. A godson he had never truly met. The brief relationship they had shared when Harry was a baby could hardly be constituted as ‘meeting’. And Sirius seemed adamant that he would receive a crash course in Harry’s life before they even met. Something that Minerva doubted very much Dumbledore would afford him. Even she didn’t know the details of Harry’s past, had only been informed that the headmaster would see to his removal from his family’s care. It raised questions, that weary statement, but she didn’t ask. Dumbledore would tell her what she knew in time if he felt it necessary.

Shifting his gaze back up to Sirius and Remus, Dumbledore reached for his cup of cooling tea. Casting a wandless Warming Charm on the rippling contents, he sipped before answering. “I believe, Sirius, that such information would be better acquired directly from Harry. If he feels he can trust you with it, then he shall share the knowledge with you himself, I am sure. But please,” he held up his hand as Sirius began to speak once more, “do not ask him directly. I think he would be as willing to share his secrets with an absolute stranger as you would your time in Azkaban.”

It was a little harsh, the reminder, and Sirius flinched as though Dumbledore had struck him. But at least it quieted his questions and mellowed his anger. Sirius slumped back in his chair and shifted his gaze moodily to his shoes. “Alright. I’ll wait.” He glanced at the door to the office, as he had dozens of times since he entered the room nearly an hour beforehand. “What time is he coming?”

Dumbledore took another measured sip of his tea before placing it down on the saucer once more. “That remains to be seen. I am not certain that he will even be attending this meet.”

Sirius snapped his head up, starting forwards in his seat. The momentary reprieve of anger abandoned was abandoned and he seemed in the process of launching himself across the room before he seemed to jolt to a halt. Minerva could just make out Remus’ hand subtly yet firmly latched onto his sleeve. After a brief strain, Sirius seemed to deflate and slumped back once more. “He might not even come?” He sounded heartbroken, like a child who had been told his birthday party had been abruptly cancelled.

Dumbledore shook his head solemnly. “I left the decision up to him. It is _his_ decision, as much as it is yours, Sirius.”

“You didn’t even ask for a reply?”

“I didn’t feel such was necessary,” Dumbledore replied cryptically. “It hardly matters, either way.”

Minerva felt a twinge of annoyance, one she often felt when it seemed Dumbledore was playing mind games with his colleagues and subordinates. _It does matter. It means that we may have been unnecessarily waiting here for an hour for a reunion that may never take place._

Minerva knew why she was here. Harry wasn’t particularly close to anyone in the Wizarding world – at least outside of his immediate friends - and she was probably the closest. They had spent those couple of months together before sixth year began, and she had grown to know the boy just barely. It was almost with pride that she realised she was the one who had fully introduced Harry to the world of magic. And he had taken to it marvelously, if a little unconventionally. He progressed in leaps and bounds, quite literally as he seemed to completely by-pass some areas of knowledge and ignore others while mastering a few with miraculous speed. Yes, pride was one word she would use to describe it. Bafflement, exasperation and resignation were others.

“Perhaps it would have been appropriate to have asked for confirmation anyway, Dumbledore,” Remus intoned quietly. There was no aggression in his tone, which was probably what allowed him to get away with such statements without angering those around him. Had Sirius said as much, sparks would have flown.

“Unnecessary, Remus, as I told you. It is unnecessary.” And with a tilt of his head towards the door, he called, “please come in, Harry.”

The speed with which Sirius and Remus spun in their seats was startling to behold. Sirius nearly rocked his chair over in his haste. He managed to right himself before the door swung inwards. It was slow, hesitant, almost nervous.

Harry was a small boy. If she had to hazard a guess just by looking at him, Minerva would have supposed him younger than sixteen. He was slight, too, which didn’t support the reality of the situation. As he stepped tentatively into the room, closing the door silently behind him, the boy paused on the threshold and peered up through his fringe and glasses at the small party ringing the headmaster’s desk. A flicker of shadow at his heel indicated that the ever-present Familiar was in company. The cat was as good as unnoticeable most of the time.

“Harry. Good evening to you.” Dumbledore spoke quietly, yet in the way that he always somehow managed, his voice carried clearly throughout the room. “May I introduce you to our guests? This is Sirius Black and Remus Lupin.’ The elderly wizard smiled kindly as she gestured to each man respectively. “They were dear friends of your father when he attended school.”

Harry stared at each man respectively as they were named, nodding with solemnity that bespoke maturity far beyond his years. Typical of the boy, he didn’t speak. Minerva found that he rarely did, except to ask a question pertaining to educational matter. Or he didn’t used to, anyway. Recent relations with some of his peers seemed to be bringing him out of his shell a little. Minerva could only think that the boy seemed to be benefiting from such friendships.

 _Though right now he looks unwell._ The thought caused Minerva to frown. Harry looked tired and worn, his usual paleness accentuated to a ghost-like intensity. She regretted the fact that she had not held sixth year Transfiguration that day; it would have been beneficial with scouting out potential illness.

 _And here I sound like a right mother hen. How silly of me. He’s not even of my House._ Yet even as the thoughts sprung alive she knew them to be foolish. She could care exceptionally for just about any student if she knew them on a personal level. It was her prerogative as both a teacher and a witch.

“Harry…”

At the whispered word, Minerva shifted her gaze towards Sirius. Without her notice, the man had risen silently to his feet. He clasped the back of his wooden chair as though using it as a crutch and only let go when he had taken enough steps across the room that he would otherwise be dragging it behind him. Minerva made a motion to stand, opening her mouth to pause Sirius in his stilted steps, but a flutter of fingers from Dumbledore stilled her tongue.

Sirius moved in a trance, as though wading through water. He paused several times, but like a fish being reeled in on a line, always started into a stumble once more. Harry didn’t move. He stared up at the approaching wizard, not retreating but not stepping nearer either. Minerva wondered what was going through the boy’s head. He was intelligent, that much could be seen from his eyes. Eyes that stared up with almost cool calculation at Sirius when he finally halted before him. The tall wizard nearly blocked Harry from her view.

“H…Hello.” Sirius’ voice choked in his throat and at his sides his hands clenched into fists.

Harry tilted his head, considering. He seemed to be searching for something in Sirius’ face. “Hello. Sirius.”

The words were very quiet. Very Harry. It was almost muffled by the short distance of the headmaster’s office and didn’t seem to hold any conviction. But the words were enough for Sirius. Like a puppet with its strings cut, he sagged, slumping to his knees. Even with his legs folded beneath him, his head still reached nearly to Harry’s shoulder. His eyes remained fixed on Harry’s face like a blind man seeing for the first time. With trembling hands he reached towards him. Minerva made to start from her seat once more; everyone knew about Harry’s touch aversion. But again Dumbledore waved her to stillness.

Appropriately, as it turned out, for when Sirius’ hands clasped gingerly onto Harry’s shoulders, it seemed to have more of an effect on the grown man than the boy. He flinched and his own shoulders began to tremble. Minerva couldn’t see his face, but she wouldn’t have been surprised to find him crying.

The shaking hands patted gently. A croak sounded, possibly with the intention of forming words but failed. He patted once more and tried again. “You… you don’t look as much like James as I expected.” He sounded almost sorrowful for the fact.

Harry stared down at the man kneeling before him, clasping his shoulders with firmness yet gentleness that bespoke a fear of breaking that which he touched. Slowly he shook his head. “Sorry, I don’t even know what he looked like. Otherwise I might have tried harder.” A faint smile, so faint it was barely there, curled at the sides of his mouth.

Sirius barked a laugh that could have been a sob. “No, no it’s not… I didn’t mean it like that. I just…” He paused, took a shuddering breath, and tried again. “I didn’t know what else to say.”

With what appeared to be a physical effort, Sirius tore his eyes from Harry and glanced back towards the group behind him. There were indeed tears swimming in his dark eyes, but they had not fallen. Yet.

“Dumbledore, would you mind? If Harry and I were to take ourselves elsewhere?”

Minerva frowned uneasily. “I don’t think –“

“Of course, Sirius. If Harry has no objections.” The headmaster nodded quietly in acceptance and Minerva turned incredulous eyes towards him. Since when had he become so lenient? She would have thought that not only would Dumbledore wish to ensure Harry’s comfort and safety in the situation, but that he would desire to be party to the conversation. The man did not become as knowledgeable and informed as he was by missing such opportunities regarding _everything._

But it was too late for that. Sirius had risen quickly to his feet and sent a questioning glance towards Harry. The boy shrugged, then nodded in acceptance.

Sirius cast another glance back towards the headmaster. “Remus? Are you coming?”

Remus hesitated. Minerva could see the eagerness in his eyes, but there was something that held him back from readily agreeing. “No thank you, Sirius. Maybe a little later.” The wizard smiled gently at Harry, who simply stared back at him. “I will speak to you later, Harry. It was nice to meet you, though. Another time?”

Harry bowed his head, nodding slowly. He met Remus’ eyes with that same considering tilt of his head and offered his almost invisible smile, before turning to follow Sirius from the room. Sirius appeared to be just short of fleeing the headmaster’s presence; it was no mystery that there was little love lost between then, and not only because of the situation with Harry. The door closed quietly behind them, a second after the disappearance of the small shadow of Lyssy.

“Headmaster, I must object.’ Minerva swung her gaze towards Dumbledore, suppressed words spilling from her mouth in a torrent. ‘Truly? Was that well considered, sending them off by themselves? You held back from letting them meet one another for so long and yet you let them leave just like that? I don’t understand –“

“If you please, Minerva, I think that was probably the only way to conduct the proceedings.” Surprisingly, it was Remus, not Dumbledore, who answered her.

Turning slowly towards the amber-eyed man, she raised an eyebrow. “What do you mean?”

“Just as he says, Minerva. I don’t believe that either Sirius or Harry would have been comfortable in progressing to any degree of familiarity with an audience.” Dumbledore leant back in his seat, eyes drifting towards the ceiling. “They are rather similar in a lot of ways, the two of them. I hesitated in allowing Sirius to opportunity to meet Harry as I believed the boy may have been reluctant to partake in the reunion. Sirius urged my hand, and it was with misgivings that I sent the letter querying Harry’s inclination to be included in the proceedings. Had he not come… but he did. And that is all the confidence I need to allow their privacy.”

“I think they will be good for one another,” Remus murmured, fingers idly picking at the knee of his trousers. In contrast to his words, he appeared rather sorrowful at the prospect. Or maybe that was just a delayed sadness at being excluded from the meeting.

Minerva switched her gaze between the two of them. “Am I overlooking something? What are you both not telling me?”

“It is not that we are keeping anything from you, Minerva. Simply that it is inconsequential, in the whole scheme of things…”

“Only that Sirius needed something. Or someone, perhaps.” Remus continued after Dumbledore trailed off. He lifted his eyes to meet Minerva’s intently. “Sirius is an ailing man, mentally speaking. I think that forming a relationship with Harry might be good for him. In more ways than one.”

“And for Harry?” Minerva scowled, disgruntled by the affairs. “You hardly considered him in these proceedings. He does not even know the man who is currently monopolizing his time.”

Remus shook his head ruefully. “No, he doesn’t. But I think they’ll get along fine. From the moment he stepped through that door I knew that he wouldn’t be comfortable talking amongst us with any semblance of ease. He carries a bit of the same look as Sirius does now, in that regard.” Remus frowned, as though a troublesome thought had just occurred to him. “I don’t know how to feel about that. Why he would act like that. Something about his family…?” Amber eyes drifted towards Dumbledore, who still pondered the roof. Minerva had to glance overhead herself, just to be sure there was not a theatre show being performed overhead to draw the headmaster’s attention.

When Dumbledore didn’t reply, Remus sighed and leant back in his chair. “Fine, don’t tell me. I’ll talk to Harry and maybe,” he shrugged. “Someday I’d like to know him well enough that he would confide in me. He is James’ son, after all.”

“Not that he looks much like him, really,” Minerva sniffed.

Remus grinned. “He doesn’t at that, does he? Oh, he’s got the hair, if a little longer, and the same nose. Sirius always used to tease James about his ‘pointy nose’. But he definitely has Lily in him; the eyes, the cheekbones. And Lily was slight, too.”

“It’s more than that, though,” Minerva contemplated. The memory of James, confident and more than a little arrogant, played through her head like a moving picture. “He doesn’t have the same attitude as James. At all. Not much like Lily, either, but more like her than him.”

Slowly, the smile faded from Remus’ face. “No. He doesn’t really, does he? Maybe that’s why he looks so different.”

“He looks different, Remus, because that child is not the child of James and Lily.”

The worlds immediately imparted silence onto the room. A static silence of absolute shock. Remus and Minerva started for a moment, mouths dropping open simultaneously before Dumbledore continued. “Oh, he is their offspring, for certain. But he did not grow under their loving hand, nor develop to acquire their habits and mimic their traits. It is no wonder that he seems a different child entirely. Because he is.”

When Minerva could breath again, she snorted. “Very astute of you, Headmaster. But please, refrain from such approaches to a topic in a similar manner again. I fear my heart would not take similar surprises with any frequency.”

Dumbledore smiled at the ceiling. “My apologies, Minerva. I will refrain in future, if possible.”

Remus shook his head and chuckled. “That would be much appreciated.” With a sigh he rose to his feet, straightening his jacket.

“Are you leaving, Remus?” Minerva asked, surprise lifting her eyebrows. She had thought the wizard would have awaited Sirius’ return, and perhaps get another chance to talk to the child – yes, Harry was still James and Lily’s child, no matter how Dumbledore played with words – but Remus shook his head.

“No, I don’t think so. I believe that meeting one complete stranger a day would be more than sufficient for Harry. And I doubt Sirius will let Harry get away with skipping much of his past in the retelling I’m sure he is attempting to pry from him.” He smiled fondly at the mental image he had painted. “Another time. I _do_ want to meet him. Properly. But now,” he glanced down towards his wrist, to an old, battered watch that ticked audibly, “I must be off. Tonks had a meeting with Bandershant at four-thirty and she said she wanted to meet me afterwards.”

“Ah. Then you best be off, my friend.” Dumbledore finally dropped his gaze from the ceiling and smiled at Remus. “Until next time.”

Remus nodded, made his way towards the fireplace and disappeared within seconds. As the flames died back to a mere flicker once more, Minerva turned towards Dumbledore. The man smiled fondly at her and she couldn’t help but sigh heavily. _He truly does enjoy throwing me for a loop._

* * *

“You don’t look that much like him at all, really.”

It was the second time the man – Sirius – had said as much. Yet this time, there was less sadness in his words and more simple curiosity. From beneath his fringe, Harry could see the tall man regarding him openly and running his eyes over his face. Somehow, it wasn’t as intrusive as it should have been.

With winter still struggling to huff its last breath, Harry was glad that Sirius hadn’t lead him outside. He’d never been particularly fond of the cold, and after his rather close encounter with Jack Frost in the Christmas holidays his relationship with snow had taken a determined turn for the worse.

They had secreted themselves in a little nook on the fourth floor, on a strategically placed bench that looked through a stained glass window of a woman holding what Harry had at first though was a baby until he had seen it’s decidedly inhuman face. A changeling, Sirius had called it, and the word rang bells of familiarity in Harry’s head. His study was a welcome distraction from the funk that he still found himself in.

For no matter how he tried to work himself out of it, his melancholy over his fight with Draco that morning persisted. He had, for the first time in his life, skipped class without valid cause. Oh, it had happened in the past, in the Muggle world when he had been forced to do as much, but that was always because his uncle was too persistent in his attentions, or because he was bedridden from some fever or another. This time, however, he had deliberately avoided the classroom for the possibility of seeing his friends. Or worse, of seeing Draco.

Sadness stabbed raw in his chest like an open wound. Draco’s harsh tone, the twisting anger on his face… Even now, Harry couldn’t fully comprehend what had triggered the anger in his friend. It seemed so uncalled for, even accounting for his reluctance in letting Harry see Sirius.

_Letting me…_

The thought had withdrawn from vexation into sorrow now. That Draco would let him… Harry had never thought that the such restriction to his autonomy would hurt so badly. He had always been told what to do, always had his decisions made for him. It was a simple fact of his life; he didn’t get the chance to choose for himself. It had pervaded him to such a degree that Harry was uncertain he could even make decisions should he be given the opportunity. Only recently had such hesitancy begun to dwindle. And Draco had tried force it out into the open once more.

 _Did he? Really? Was he just being a forceful dictator, or was it for another reason?_ Harry couldn’t understand, was so confused that it left him nearly shaking his head in frustration. How was Draco so good at riling him up? He had only ever felt even mildly angry when around the other boy, and now? Harry had actually been angry at Draco.

_Maybe it was a bit uncalled for… I don’t know._

“You’re thinking awfully hard.”

Glancing towards Sirius, the man still considering him as though he were a rather abstract portrait, he shrugged. “No, just… thinking.”

“About what?”

“A lot of things. School, friends… familiar strangers who suddenly appear in my life.”

Sirius barked that oddly loud laugh he had. The one that nearly caused Harry to start at each utterance. He somehow managed to refrain the automatic twitch of his muscles. “Yeah, well, I am sorry about that.” Sirius ran a hand through hair. “I just really wanted to meet you.”

Frowning, Harry turned his own study to the man. He was a picture of respectfulness, well-groomed and with a posture that bespoke formal upbringing and slumping only slightly in casual ease. But there was rawness to his expression, a play of emotions that seemed nearly an uncontrollable movie reel. It put Harry oddly in mind of his own inability to control his expressions. The thought was oddly reassuring.

“Why is that?”

Sirius turned dark eyes on him curiously. “Why what?”

“Why did you want to meet me? Why now?”

Sighing, that posture slumped a little further. “Why now? Well, better now than never, I suppose.”

“Hmm?”

Another hand passed through Sirius’ hair, tugging idly on the tips. “I would have come sooner, if I’d actually known you were at all welcoming of the prospect.”

It was Harry’s turn to frown. He wasn’t quite following of the direction of the conversation, as though he was missing something. Sirius seemed to be hesitant to elaborate. “What do you mean? Why wouldn’t I have been welcoming.”

The wizard shrugged. “You lived in a Muggle world. From what I’ve heard, after I… returned to England,” he paused briefly, and Harry felt a story buried there; he didn’t interrupt, however. “I was told that you chose to move to France to live with a second cousin or something or other.

“As your godfather, and as pertaining to your parents will, you should have been in my custody had I been in a more, ah… flexible position. I only came into such a position about three years ago.” He turned his eyes back towards Harry. There was a deep, enduring sadness in their wide depths. “Had I known…”

“Known what?” Harry couldn’t quite contain his confusion.

Sirius dropped his eyes to his hands, where they now wrestled one another idly in his lap. “Dumbledore told me that…”

Harry tuned it out. He didn’t want to think about it, didn’t want to hear. At that moment, he could contain the memories of his past, the hurt and the sadness that had arisen with a vengeance so recently. Like a Band-Aid over a bullet wound, he would keep it hidden until later when he could assess the damage. And that meant he would have to stop Sirius there.

“I don’t know what you mean.”

There was far too much understanding on Sirius’ face for Harry’s peace of mind. It was disconcerting. “I… I know you…” He swallowed, casting imploring eyes towards Harry. Harry had to drop his chin. He was gradually getting a grasp on his facial expression, but when faced with such sincerity he didn’t know how he could maintain indifference.

“You’re my godfather, right? I never knew I had a godfather.” He kept his voice quiet, hushed.

Sirius leant forward in a seemingly unconscious motion at the words. A small smile caused wrinkles to appear at the corners of his eyes. “Yeah, I assumed that. Surprise.”

The broadening of the smile was too much to deny. Harry felt his resentment ease slightly, and even offered a small smile in return. “Yeah…”

Taking a deep breath, Sirius slumped further back into his seat. “What would you say to it?”

“Say to what?”

“Coming to live with me?”

Harry froze once more, in both mind and body. His eyes fastened blankly on the floor before him. The soft warmth of Lyssy beneath the seat, pressing her head to his ankle, was an anchor to reality that suddenly seemed swept from beneath his feet. “Excuse me?”

Sirius cleared his throat with false casualness. “You. Come and live with me.”

“Um, I don’t think…”

“What?” Sirius cast his eyes down towards him. That casualness continued, yes, but a strange light flickered in his eyes. Not intimidating, not like Harry’s uncle, but somewhat… pleading?

“Um, Sirius, I barely know you. I don’t think- “

“Oh. Oh, right. Yeah.” Relief spread across Sirius’ face and Harry immediately understood. The man was afraid he would say he didn’t want to go because…? What, he didn’t like him? “I didn’t mean right now, of course. I just thought, you know, if maybe when school let out this year?”

Reaching under the bench, Harry pressed fingers to Lyssy’s back. Well, this is a turn of events. And so unexpected, so far removed from every other concern in his life at the moment, that he didn’t really know how to approach it. “I… suppose? Maybe?”

The answering smile spreading across Sirius’ face waylaid any uncertainty Harry felt over uttering such words, even if they had been more an attempt to comfort the man. “Great! I mean, look, I know you don’t have to promise anything, or, you know. Nothing’s set in stone. I just wanted to put it out there, as an option.”

Harry felt warmth flicker in his chest. Warmth that gradually grew to replace his melancholy at the forefront of his mind. It was a welcome relief. He smiled at the man who looked nothing if not a delighted puppy. Straightening in his seat, tugging Lyssy into his lap, he nodded. “Alright. Maybe I can write to you sometime this term?”

“That would be –“ Sirius cleared his throat again, banishing the croak. “I would like that. I’d really like to get to know you, Harry.”

“And I you.”

“Do you think that – Oh, who’s this?” For Sirius had turned eyes to the cat now curled in Harry’s lap.

The persistent thrum of a purr fizzled along Harry’s legs comfortably. Half-closed green eyes regarded Sirius, not with suspicion but with curiosity, simply watching. Through the bond, the apatite collar still fastened around Lyssy’s neck, Harry could feel the odd, predatory calculation of the little cat’s ancestors shaping her thoughts. Faint wariness, but yes, mostly curiosity. Of what, Harry couldn’t tell; Lyssy didn’t form the feeling anything understandable as words, but he could hear it as though she had spoken the feeling aloud. He scratched idly behind her ears and the purr thrummed louder.

“This is Lyssy. She’s my, um, I suppose yeah, she’s my Familiar.”

“A Familiar? What, at your age?” Sirius seemed rather incredulous at that.

“Is that strange?”

Shrugging, Sirius turned his attention back towards the cat. Unexpectedly, he stretched out a hand towards her. “May I?” At Harry’s own shrug, he trailed fingers over the little cat’s back. The purrs muted slightly but didn’t fully stop. “It’s not a problem, exactly. Just that most people don’t usually conduct the ritual before they become full adults.”

“What ritual?”

His fingers pausing slightly, Sirius glanced up at him. “Ah, I see. It’s a natural Familiar. That’s a little unusual.”

“Unusual?” Harry was feeling a little like a mimicking parrot.

“Not bad. Just not as common as induced Familiars. You must be close, for such a bond to develop.”

Harry nodded, his own fingers still kneading gently. The words ‘she was my best friend for years,’ managed to slip out before he clamped his jaw shut. Glancing fearfully at Sirius, he awaited the dubious stare, the baffled reply. But none came.

Sirius nodded his head slowly. “Fair enough. One of my closest friends for a good couple of years has been a hippogriff.” He flashed his teeth widely. They were slightly crooked. “I’m not one to judge.”

It was so easy, being with the man. Harry wasn’t sure if he had simply become better at social interactions since attending Hogwarts or if Sirius truly was just very companionable. For whatever reason, he felt unexpectedly at comfortable with the man.

 _And I never feel all that much at ease with anyone except – No, don’t think that. Don’t let your thoughts go there._ He thrust the image of Draco from his mind and focused instead on Sirius. Which was good, really, as Sirius seemed to have decided that mention of the hippogriff had opened a doorway into reminiscing of the past.

Sirius spoke with a mixture of wistfulness, frustration and fondness of his past. He spoke of his house in London – which he hated – and his infrequent partaking in Order business that was notably patchy in places where Harry assumed he was attempting to enforce confidentiality. Though hesitant at first, any reluctance to share quickly quelled when he found Harry wasn’t about to interrupt him, nor simply listen with half an ear. Even more so when they got past skirting around the issue of his imprisonment. It happened rather unremarkably, really, and not five minutes after he had begun talking.

“I was… imprisoned. In Azkaban. For many years.” Sirius’ eyes had widened slightly, his face becoming faintly and rapidly grey, and stared fixedly at a point of the hallway floor before him.

Harry had paused for a moment warily, considering, before replying. “I know. Do you want to talk about it?”

Sirius had turned to face him slowly. What started out as a sharp shake of the head became an almost frantic dissent. “No. No, I really don’t.”

Harry shrugged, turning his eyes down towards Lyssy. The cat watched Sirius with her quiet regard, pupils thinned to slits. “Okay. Then don’t. Everyone has things they’re trying to forget.”

Like a load had been lifted from Sirius’ shoulder, the man had sighed and his breath evened. With forced joviality, he started into the story of how he had come about meeting his hippogriff friend. Buckbeak, he was called. Harry was surprised to hear Neville, Ron and Hermione make an appearance in that tale, even even than Sirius’ surprise upon hearing that he knew them.

“You’re friends with Neville? Hermione and Ron too?”

Harry nodded. “We have a study group.”

Blinking owlishly, Sirius had only muttered an incredulous ‘study group?’ before shaking his head. “You’ll have to give them my best. Haven’t seen any of them for a good while, not since, oh, would have to be over a year now. Kids don’t have much to do with the Order.” Harry made a mental note to ask Neville about his meeting with Sirius. Meddling with suspected criminals added to ever-growing colour of his friend’s curious past? What _didn’t_ the Gryffindors get up to?

The story of Sirius’ pursuit of a man named Peter Pettigrew – who Harry had heard of but knew little about – seemed as riddled with holes as a secondhand blanket. Harry suspected Sirius to be leaving out some of the grimmer details and filled them in for himself. Apparently Pettigrew had been working for the Lord Voldemort, and had a hand in numerous deaths. One of which…

“I couldn’t very well leave the bastard to go free. Not after what he’d done.” Sirius seemed to have slipped into a world of his own when the subject of Harry’s parents arose. He seemed to have completely forgotten Harry was there. Not an uncommon occurrence for Harry; he was frequently told he was a good listener, though Blaise suggested it was simply that he was naturally unobtrusive. Harry tended to agree with him. “He needed to pay, pay for his crimes. If I’d have known that he was such a lying, scheming, backstabbing- “

The man closed his eyes tightly. He was bent nearly double, elbows propped on knees and chin in hands. His fingers seemed to be gripping his jaw fit to crack bone. Harry stared at him silently. There was a lot of pain in Sirius; it hung from every taut muscle. Harry considered how odd it was, that Sirius should feel such heartbreak for the loss of _Harry’s_ parents while Harry felt so little.

But then, Harry hadn’t known them.

Suddenly, Sirius seemed to recall Harry’s presence. He opened his eyes, swiveling them towards him. “Sorry, I shouldn’t have said that.”

“What?”

He sighed. “It’s not so much what I said, I suppose. I mean that I shouldn’t have gotten angry. Shouldn’t have brought up the topic. It’s a sore spot for you, too.”

“More for you, I think.”

Harry spoke quietly, nearly a whisper, and it was probably because of such that Sirius was delayed in his response. He was silent for nearly a whole minute before he started up straight and looked to Harry incredulously. “What? Why would you think that?”

“I didn’t know them, Sirius. They were my parents, but I don’t even remember them.”

Sirius seemed to deflate with his words. “You don’t? Not even a little?”

Harry pondered. Did he? Maybe, there might be something. A soft voice, the smell of warm skin, the feel of sharp stubble beneath his fingers. Maybe. He would have to think about it. “If I do, it’s not anything clear.”

Slumping further, Sirius turned his attention towards his fingers. They had stopped trying to tug each other apart, at least. “That’s… tragic.”

“Maybe.”

“No, it is.” Sirius nodded firmly in curtness that bespoke anger. “It’s not right that you don’t know your parents. And you should have known them, Harry. James, Lily, they were incredible. You should have –“

And just like that the anger died into grief. The heat disappeared from his eyes and an upwelling of what could only be tears filmed Sirius’ eyes. A brief moment of panic – what would Harry do if the man, barely more than a stranger started to cry? – before Sirius collected himself. “Sorry. It’s just that even after all these years,” he paused to laugh humourlessly in what was more of a growl than a bark. “Can you believe I miss him so much?”

“James?”

Sirius nodded. “You mother too, of course. But I knew James for longer and, well… we were like brothers.” His face grew mournful, reflective, yet still open. Harry was stilled nearly immobile at the display. It was different to that which Draco had shown, the clean, sharp agony of acute sorrow. This was older, simmering, as though it had spent years growing to such intensity, bubbled down from the wrenching hurt of a newly opened wound into a bone-deep ache. “How can one person mean so much to you?”

Only when Lyssy’s head brushed his chin did he realise he had stopped stroking and the little cat crawled up his chest. He wrapped arms around her gently but tightly; she was a reassuring warmth. Reassurance for what, he couldn’t tell, only…

“True friends, they’re not like anything else in the world. You can both love them and hate them at the same time, but you know, no matter what, you’ll always be there for one another.” He growled another laugh that sounded more like a sob. “Until they’re not.” Glancing towards Harry, Sirius swallowed loudly. “You know?”

It was a rhetorical question. Or it should have been, but Harry couldn’t help his thoughts turning towards his friends. More importantly, to one friend in particular. Even the brief flicker of memory caused a wash of sadness to well up within him, but he fought against the natural instinct to bury the emotions and strove to consider his perception of Draco objectively. Did he hate him? He wasn’t sure; he didn’t think he could ever hate him before today, and even now when the anger that hung like a resounding echo in his memory, it was brief and fiery rather than the slow lurking of hatred.

What Draco had said had hurt him, and maybe more than it should have. Why? It took a long moment of thought to realise, until Sirius’ words floated through his mind once more. _You both love and hate them at the same time._ Was it that simple? Was it because he loved him too, as well as being angry – _hated,_ even, however briefly – at him that it had hurt so badly?

“I’ll give you some advice, Harry, though it’s probably a bit inappropriate given how we hardly know one another.” Sirius gave self-deprecating smile, but continued anyway. “If you ever get something like that, don’t let it go. And live every minute of it. I’m not saying it will all end painfully – hell, if it ever does end, I’d hope it would be as painless as possible – but just in case. You don’t want to live with regret.”

It spoke too directly to Harry’s thoughts. To Harry’s experiences even. Had Sirius been looking him in the eye, Harry would have even considered himself to be a subject of Legilimens. He’d read about that after what Narcissa had told him of his unconscious experience. From what little he knew of him, Harry didn’t think Sirius was the sort of person to be skilled at such a delicate art, let alone willing to use it. Still, it was disconcerting. He rebuffed it with a question of his own.

“What do you have to regret?” Harry was genuinely curious, for certain, which probably helped in enforcing the sincerity of his question. Sirius, to his credit, considered it sincerely in return. Or perhaps just considered whether to reply or not.

Finally he spoke. “I do have regrets. I have many regrets. I regret every time we fought. I regret when I missed dropping by his house because I was too tired after a day with the Order. I regret,” he paused. The lines in his face hardened to statue-like quality. “I regret that I didn’t act as secret keeper when it was offer me. Yes, I have many things I regret.”

Harry didn’t know what a secret keeper was, but he didn’t feel it the moment to remedy his ignorance. Rather, Sirius seemed in such deep thought that when he abruptly surged into motion and placed a hand on Harry’s shoulder, eyes fixing upon him intensely, Harry started violently but Sirius didn’t even seem to notice.

“Don’t live with regrets, Harry. You’ll just spend a lifetime wondering how you could have acted differently. Instead, just live.”


	24. So Imperfectly Perfect

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: SO. MUCH. FLUFF! Be prepared!
> 
> Also, I feel like I have to add: at one point in this chapter, Harry says something which may seem like it's disregarding the reality of an abusive situation. Please don't hate me for it; I don't stand by such sentiments and, really, neither does Harry.
> 
> Enjoy!

Draco stared numbly at the flickering flames spluttering in the Slytherin common room fireplace. They had died down markedly in the hours he had spent motionless before them, unmoving since secreting himself in the dungeons. At seven o’clock they would be magically invigorated again, he knew, but for now the fringe of deep red crackled just faintly.

The room was empty, even though it was not yet six o’clock. It took Draco a moment to realise why. Of course, dinner. The usually swarm would descend at five-thirty, leaving the dormitories a ghost town in their wake. Draco was glad for the resulting silence. It gave him headspace to think.

It was better than Pansy’s incessant nagging, anyway. She had been a whirlwind of questions since that morning. Since…

He cringed at the memory, hearing once more the wavering cry, seeing the face paled to a deathly pallor and eyes spread wide behind his glasses. Harry never shouted, never lost his temper. Was never angry with Draco. And yet…

_What the hell have I done?_

Groaning, Draco thumped his head back on the back of the sofa, closing his eyes and touching his fingers to his brow. He was thankful that the common room was empty too in that it meant no one could see him commit such an act so disconsolate. Not that he particularly cared at the moment. Since his parents… since the _incident,_ he had only recalled some of his prior commitment to societal expectations. They seemed remarkably less important now.

Which was probably a good thing, really, for had he been as severely dismayed by public displays of emotion, half of the students of Hogwarts bearing witness to his argument with Harry would have floored him. As it was, he had simply stared at the stairwell, in the direction of Harry’s flight and bathing in the magic whiplash of _some_ thing. He’d barely noticed the curious faces peering through the doors of the Great Hall. It was only when Blaise and Pansy, followed closely by Hermione, Neville and Ron, sidled across the emptiness of the Entrance Hall that he even noticed he had an audience.

“Draco? Where’s Harry?”

It was Hermione’s voice, he noted distantly, but he didn’t turn to acknowledge her question. Didn’t open his mouth to reply. He simply stared at the path of Harry’s disappearance. His anger, his frustration, had died and been replaced by a thick numbness as though he’d been wrapped in a woolen cloud. A stifling, overheated woolen cloud.

Hermione didn’t seem to need a reply, however. From his periphery, he saw her follow the trail of his eyes and up the stairs. A moment later, she was striding along Harry’s footsteps. Neville and Ron shared a glance before following in her wake.

When they had disappeared up the distant stairwell, Pansy slowly and deliberately planted herself in Draco’s immediate vision. Though she effectively cut off his line of sight to the shadow of Harry’s retreat, Draco couldn’t tear his eyes away.

“Draco, what happened?”

Her voice was low, yet there was an urgency to it that finally drew Draco’s attention. Blinking rapidly, he met his friend’s worried gaze. A glance over her shoulder to Blaise showed his other friend staring pointedly at the crowd of curious onlookers at the doors to the Great Hall. Half of them ducked their heads abashedly. The other half, however, did not.

Draco swallowed. He tried to speak, but couldn’t. Pansy, seemingly understanding his muteness, met Blaise’s eyes over Draco’s shoulder and jerked her head in the opposite direction to that which the Gryffindors had taken. As a pair, they ushered Draco into the nearest empty classroom.

As soon as Blaise closed the door, Pansy whirled towards Draco. “What in Morgana’s name were you thinking?!”

Her voice was whip-crack sharp, almost painful to his ears. Draco winced, easing himself into a lean against the nearest desk. Pansy always invoked Morgana when she was especially angered. It didn’t bode well for his pride or his back, both of which would likely receive a thorough flaying. Not that he didn’t deserve it at least partially. He swallowed again, an attempt to rid his tongue of its dryness. It didn’t help.

Pansy didn’t seem to care. She had begun a tirade. “Of all the things to say. Everyone knows you don’t talk about Harry’s family. _Everyone._ And you went and yelled it across the Entrance Hall as though it were the next big story for the Daily Prophet. Do you have any idea how stupid you are?”

She seemed to honestly be awaiting an answer. Draco sighed heavily, wiping a hand across his forehead, and managed a croak. “I… I do. I was really stupid.”

“Yes. You were.”

“I shouldn’t have said what I said –“

“No, you shouldn’t.”

“I was just so angry. I wish I could take it back.”

“Well, you can’t.” Pansy folded her arms across her chest, her face a blank, cool mask that was more intimidating than any scowl could ever be. She had progressed far from the sneers of teenager-hood and was rapidly becoming a force to be reckoned with as a young woman. _She’ll go far in the political world_ , Draco thought absently, before pulling his mind from the passing thought. The numbness had begun to defrost, leaving an ominous horror in its wake.

What had he done?

He had breached the _one topic_ that they were never supposed to discuss. Pansy was right. It went without saying that Harry’s past was a taboo subject. And Draco of all people knew exactly _why._

Pansy apparently rightly took his silence for self-reflection. Harrumphing in satisfaction, she took a step closer to Draco. “You need to go and find him. And you need to apologise.”

Coolness spread through Draco’s gut. Apologise? He never rightly apologized for anything. Not really. It was something that Draco knew to be a personal flaw, one he’d once seen as a benefit to his character but had since reassessed in terms of advantageousness, but he simply _did not do it_. And on top of that, the thought of confronting Harry… It sent chills down his spine.

“Pansy, I don’t think –“

“Oh, you bloody well will, Draco Malfoy, if I have to drag you by the ear.” And from the expression on Pansy’s face, about ten degrees colder again than it had been, Draco believed her.

He swallowed past the continuing dryness in his throat. “But what could I say?”

Apparently satisfied that he was accepting the inevitable, Pansy took a step backwards. Draco was grateful for the distance. It seemed less likely that she would be able to eat him alive. Or at least not in one bite. “For starters, go and find him. You’ve never had a fight before so we don’t know how he’ll respond. For all we know, Harry could go on a killing rampage.”

Blaise snorted from where he’d been all but forgotten beside the door. “In what universe would Harry ever go on a killing rampage?”

“Quiet, you.” Pansy shushed him with a wave of her hand before tucking it back to fold at her chest. She didn’t even spare Blaise a glance. “Go and find him, and confess that you’re a foolhardy idiot who speaks before he thinks. That you didn’t mean to hurt him and that you’re simply jealous.”

“Jealous?” Draco blinked at her, uncomprehending.

Blaise snickered, drawing Draco’s eyes. “Are you serious? You can’t be so oblivious.”

“I said quiet, you.” Pansy glared at him fiercely enough to make him cringe, cowed. It was almost laughable to consider how besotted they really where with one another and how well they actually worked as a couple. Thoughts of their relationship evaporated from Draco’s mind a moment later, however, when Pansy turned her attention back towards him. “Yes, jealous. Obviously, you feel that meeting someone who may become important to him will take Harry away from you.”

Draco didn’t realise his jaw had dropped open until he noticed Pansy staring pointedly at his chin. He clicked it shut with a snap. “I don’t know what you heard from within the Great Hall, but that –“

“Is entirely accurate, actually.” Blaise stepped up behind Pansy, dropping his chin onto her head. It was a sign of how far the pair had come that she only cast him another half-hearted glare. “We could hear everything pretty well, actually. ‘What about me? Am I not good enough for you?’”

“I never said-“

“Yes, Draco, you did.” Pansy raised an eyebrow at him, somehow managing to stare down her nose even though she stood a full head shorter “And it’s true. You’d know it too, if you actually thought about it.”

So Draco did. At length, and under the watchful eye of Pansy and Blaise. Inevitably, the conclusions he reached were in favour of his friends’ reasoning. Jealous? He’d never really been jealous before. Rarely even envious. What he wanted his parents generally gave him. He’d only come to recognise in recent years that such constant supplementing of his desires probably made him a bit spoilt. A bit.

But jealous? He’d never really had cause to be jealous of _anyone_ before. The concept was rather foreign to him. But then, the feeling that coiled like a wound spring in his chest was equally foreign. It was very possible. Even probable.

_I really am jealous?_

He didn’t realise he’d spoken aloud until Blaise sighed in relief. “Ah, he’s seen the light!”

Pansy nodded, shaking Blaise’s head from her crown as she did so. “So, now you know what to do about it?”

Draco didn’t really know. He didn’t have a clue of how to approach jealousy. He _did_ know that he should follow Pansy’s other suggestion, however. Nodding to himself, hesitantly at first then with increased vigor, he pushed off the desk and started towards the door. It didn’t quite have time to swing shut to silence Blaise’s words: “remind me again how they aren’t together yet?”

At another time, he would have started back towards his two best friends and heatedly denied any suppositions on their parts. But in that moment he had a runaway to track down. He began his search.

Only to find, three hours later, that when Harry wanted to be hidden he was bloody well good at it. He’d missed his morning classes, and skipped lunch in aimless wandering, to no avail. It was only nearly an hour after classes had concluded at the end of the day, when a panting Neville raced up to him with a hideously ragged piece of folded parchment clutched in his hand, that he made any headway at all

“Where the hell have you been all day? You never sit still long enough for someone to find you!” Neville panted heavily, chest heaving and glared at the Slytherin.

Draco, strung to his wits end, glared back with equal fervor. “I’ve been looking all over the castle. Where do you think I’ve been?”

“Well, you could have asked me. Ron, Hermione and I found Harry this morning.”

Draco could have torn his hair out in frustration. “What? _Where?”_

“In the astronomy tower. He wouldn’t open the door to speak to us, so we eventually had to leave for class.” Neville sighed, shaking his head. “He wouldn’t even speak to us, mate. I think he’s pretty angry still. Who’d have thought?”

Draco wasn’t listening. He already spun on his heel, striding in the direction of the tallest tower.

“He’s already gone, though!”

Jolting to a stop, Draco glanced over his shoulder at Neville still rooted to the spot behind him. “What? Where’s he gone?”

“To Dumbledore’s office.” Neville shrugged, turning his gaze towards his feet as though suddenly awkward. “I guess he’s going to go and meet Sirius.”

Draco was frozen. That feeling – _jealousy_ – welled within him once more, but he crushed it down. He opened his mouth to speak, yet no words spilled forth.

Neville fiddled idly with the parchment between his fingers, folding and unfolding the various layers. The parchment was so worn it didn’t make a sound as it crinkled along the folds. “Look, Draco, Sirius isn’t that bad. From what I know of him, from when I’ve met him, he’s a pretty top bloke, you know?”

A scowl curled Draco’s lip before he could help himself. “Even after Azkaban? Oh, jolly good.” The words rung snide and cold.

Neville nodded fervently in reply, completely overlooking Draco’s sarcasm. “Yeah, really. I mean, he might be a bit odd at times, but I think he’s got his heart set in the right place.”

Unable to withstand the feeble attempts at consolidation, Draco turned sharply from the Gryffindor and started down the corridor. Neville called something after him, but his thoughts grumbled too loudly for him to make it out.

_Bloody Black. I swear, if he so much as looks at Harry the wrong way, even thinks about hurting him, I’ll…_

Hurting him. Draco had done that. The thought slowed his steps into a weary slump, winding down to a halt. He stared blankly at the floor of the corridor for what must have been longer than he realised, for it was only when a passer-by spoke to him that he raised his head.

“Malfoy? Do you need something?”

He thought the girl’s name was Soleil. Mary Soleil, fourth year. Pretty sure, anyway; at least he thought it was her who always painted her eyelids blue. Not that he cared to be perfectly honest. She could have been a three-foot yellow-bellied gnome for all it concerned him. He simply shook his head, glancing around him – ah, he’d wandered to the Slytherin dungeons – and within moments had placed himself firmly before the common room fire and scowled away any housemates that dared sit within a five foot radius.

Thus his current status.

Now that he knew where Harry was, Draco was unsure of how to proceed. He didn’t want to say the wrong thing, and throughout the afternoon he had come to realise how vitally important it was that he _didn’t._ The possibility that he may have, somehow, irreversibly butchered their friendship with a few careless words spoken in the heat of the moment was almost too painful to consider. In such a short time, Harry had become so important to him. Draco could hardly conceive his life without him.

So caught up in his own thoughts was he that he didn’t even register the gradual return of most of his housemates. The faint buzz of chatter rung in his ears mutedly, but he paid it no heed. It was only when a figure stepped directly into his blank field of vision that he blinked into awareness.

“You missed dinner. You should probably head down to the kitchens, have the house elves cook you up something.” Blaise spoke with uncharacteristic quietness, almost wariness, and completely lacking of his normal jovial tone.

Draco tilted his head up towards his friend slowly. The jumble of words gradually made meaning in his head. Nodding slowly, he eased to his feet.

“And maybe go and see Harry, too.” Draco paused in his step, stilled. Blaise continued as though his hadn’t noticed, turning towards the fireplace. “Neville said he’d just parted with Black when we were leaving the Great Hall. I don’t know how he knows, but, well.” The Italian boy shrugged, turned from the fire and eased around Draco in his immobility to slip into his vacated seat. The smile he directed towards him was muted, but encouraging. It was disconcerting that _Blaise_ of all people would be so serious.

Swallowing down a sudden assault of nervousness, Draco nodded once more and started towards the door. Younger housemates dodged neatly from his path as he moved, but he barely spared them a thought. He just caught the tail end of Blaise’s “…remember to eat something!” before the door swung closed behind him.

The walk to Harry’s rooms was both too long and far too short. His feet seemed to draw him on an endless route, yet quite suddenly and without realising how he’d gotten there he found himself outside the plain blackwood door with a hand raised. Not the kitchens, he realised. Of course his feet would set him on the path that left him feeling nearly frantic enough to scratch gauges into his cheeks.

In a flash of memory, he was transported back to several weeks ago – was it only weeks? – when he had been in a similar position. I _t seems that I’m making a habit of saying the wrong thing. And subsequently apologizing._ The realization of existing precedent did nothing to dispel his uneasiness, however. If anything, it made it worse.

His knuckles rapped the door before he told them to. There was silence for a few moments – was that too long? Should he knock again? – until with the click of a lock and the squeak of the doorknob, the door swung half open.

It was dark inside; no fire lit the fireplace, and only the dim flicker of a candle or two stretched its feeble light into the corridor. Harry stood half hidden behind the door, fingers grasping the hardwood at chest height in something of a wary embrace. His head was slightly bowed, fringe loosened from his braid, and he stared at Draco with quiet regard.

He was in his jeans and jumper still, Draco realised detachedly. Harry was always one to dress down as soon as he was closeted in his room for the night. The added clue of the absent fire suggested he’d only just returned. A rumble in Draco chest as the thought – Sirius Bloody Black – rippling through his mind was quashed only with difficulty.

The silence that stretched between them was sickening. Harry didn’t speak. Not that Draco expected him to. The time Harry willingly and consistently began to initiate awkward conversations, or any conversation for that matter, was the day Muggles realised pigs could fly.

Which meant it would be Draco’s role to break into that awkwardness.

He cleared his throat quietly. “May I come in?”

For a moment, Draco thought Harry might actually turn him away. He didn’t know what he’d do if it came to that. But after a long pause of contemplation, Harry bowed his head in a single nod and fully opened the door, pressing himself into the wall to make room for Draco’s entrance. He followed as the Draco made his way into the sitting room. Funny, how despite having been there only that morning, the tension between himself and Harry suddenly made the room less familiar, less welcoming. Or perhaps that was simply the absence of the fire.

Gesturing towards the half-burnt log in the grate, Draco turned to Harry with a questioning raise of his eyebrow. Harry shrugged and nodded. His skills with elemental magic were sporadic at best. Draco hadn’t seen him conjure a fire save for one instance – in that horrible Defense lesson months before – and that was hardly a conscious effort; quite literally, for Harry had not really been conscious at the time. Which was probably why it wasn’t lit in the first place.

Drawing his wand, Draco muttered a near silent _“Ignisio”._ The room flared to light in a wash of orange and no, even that light didn’t serve to make him feel any more welcomed.

Harry had lowered himself onto the edge of the couch, eyes fixed upon the rug before the fireplace as though trying to count each individual thread. His face was horribly blank, nearly as expressionless as when Draco had first met him. The continued silence did nothing to help Draco’s nerves; rather, it sent them haywire. He desperately wished Harry would say something, just so Draco could get a reading on what was going through his head. And how to approach the subject at hand.

After a rapid mental debate over whether to ask Harry if his welcome into the room extended to occupying the seat beside him, Draco bit down on his worries and eased himself into the seat. Harry didn’t even glance in his direction.

Which meant it was up to Draco to attempt to start the conversation. He knew he shouldn’t be, but it irked him that he was the one that had to _try._ Though, however he looked at it, their current awkwardness was his fault. Even if Harry should open up more-

No. That was wrong. He shouldn’t have to. They were his secrets, his pain to try to deal with. When Harry felt comfortable enough to talk about it, he would. Until then…

“Harry, I, um…” Draco firmed his jaw and deliberately turned towards his friend. “Harry, I came to apologise.”

“I know.”

Those simple words, even quieter than normal, abruptly cut Draco off. His hastily compiled speech was rendered useless. “You know?”

“Yeah. And I don’t think you really should. Apologise, I mean.”

Unsure of how to respond, Draco fell silent. Which was difficult. When he was uncertain, it was a reflex response for him to simply let his tongue take over and by-pass his brain with the most appropriate response it deemed fit. Such a method usually worked out for the best. But for whatever reason, Draco felt that such an approach wouldn’t be received quite so favourably in this instance.

Harry drew a deep breath and with what appeared to be a physical effort turned towards Draco. “What you said this morning, Draco. It hurt me.” He paused, teeth clamping into his lip and his fingers drifting towards his collarbone. Draco wanted desperately to grasp those fingers, to halt them in their passage towards the self-mutilation that he’d come to recognize as being Harry’s nervous response, but didn’t. He was scared Harry would simply flinch from his attempt. “But… I’ve thought about it a lot today. Or mostly tonight, I guess. I… I overreacted.”

It wasn’t the direction Draco had expected their conversation to take, that was for sure. Stoic silence was far more likely, or perhaps even a revisit of the morning’s anger. He winced from the unwelcome memory, thrusting it aside. His mind finally jolted into action enough to speak. “No, I don’t think you- “

“I did. I overreacted. I’ve never been upset like that before. I’ve never been angry like that.” Harry closed his eyes momentarily, as though flinching from the recollection. As he opened them, they met Draco’s. The dancing of the fire left a yellow-white reflection on his glasses. “You took me by surprise, and I think I got scared. I’ve never really had to think about my past before, to really consider it, and you made me – “

“Which I shouldn’t have,” Draco blurted out. “Harry, I’m sorry. I was foolish, and I didn’t mean what I said.”

“Didn’t you?” Harry sounded more curious than accusatory. “Do you want me to talk to you about my uncle? And about my past? Do you care who I spend time with, Draco?”

Draco’s mouth hung open for a moment. He struggled to clamp his lips shut to no avail, swallowing tightly. “I… I do care.” Pansy’s words reverberated in his mind. “I do want to know. I want to know more about you, not for any particular reason, but just because I want to know. And I guess I was,” he squeezed his own eyes closed in a mimic of Harry’s motion, “jealous at the thought that you might be more willing to share that with someone else than me.”

Peeling his eyes open slowly, he met Harry’s once more. The curiosity remained, embedded in thoughtfulness. “Why would you be jealous? Just because I spend time with other people doesn’t mean I’d want to be friends with you any less.”

“I know that.” Draco heard the shortness of his words, the sharpness of his tone, but couldn’t hold it back. “But I was still jealous. You didn’t overreact. I did. I know I did. I think even at the time I realised I was being irrational.”

“But why…?”

Draco sighed heavily. “Because I like you.”

Silence rung like a resounding bell in the air. Draco peered at Harry through his lashes, watched his face shift subtly through emotions that were too obscured by shadow to properly discern. His fingers played across his collar, not scratching thankfully, but simply tapping in something of a rhythm. “I know that, Draco.”

“No, I mean…” Draco clicked his tongue in frustration. “Not like a friend. More like… love?”

It was terribly embarrassing. Draco rarely became embarrassed or bashful, but in that moment he wished he could bury his head under the coffee table. He could only pray that his cheeks weren’t flushing. Such a telltale sign of awkwardness would be unacceptable. He hadn’t felt like this with Pansy, or that brief stint with Daphne Greengrass in fifth year that was so short and shallow as to be nearly non-existent. His feeling, even disregarding his embarrassment, were so much deeper; he almost drowned in their depths.

Harry stared at him for a moment. Surprisingly, no shock registered on his face. A small smile upturned the corners of his mouth. It looked faintly sad. “Like as a boyfriend?”

“Yes.” He wasn’t blushing, _please_ don’t let him be blushing. How had it come to this? He’d come to apologise, hadn’t he? And it had turned into a bloody confession –

“Yeah, I know that too.”

The comet-like speed of Draco’s thoughts ground to a halt. “What?”

Harry shrugged, dropping his eyes to his lap. The fingers of his right hand begun to scratch idly at his neck and Draco had to lock his fingers together to prevent himself from reaching for them. “I mean, I sort of had an idea that you maybe felt… With when you kissed me, just before term started. But I thought, since then, that you probably didn’t feel- “

“Wait, what? When I kissed you?”

Harry glanced up at him with large eyes, almost warily. “The night after Pansy’s party. I’m assuming that’s what it was.”

Draco could have sunken through the chair in mortification. He knew! Harry knew, and he remembered, and dear God, he hadn’t been asleep – at least not fully – because he remembered… How could the situation have gotten to such a state? He wasn’t sure if he didn’t prefer Harry yelling at him.

“I just figured that, maybe afterwards, since you didn’t say anything… If maybe you thought it was….”

Resolutely ignoring the almost painful burning in his cheeks, Draco firmed his shoulders and pushed through his roiling thoughts. Only gradually did Harry’s words filter into his ears. “What? Think what?”

The delicate picking of Harry’s fingers had become a deliberate scratching. Draco fought hard to keep his stare from the faint marks he could just see above the neck of Harry’s collar. “Draco, look, I understand you want to know about my past. But I’m under no allusions. It’s dirty, and ugly, and… I didn’t really understand for a long time my own situation. No one ever really told me about it until I was in school, and even then it always felt like they were talking about _other_ people. With my uncle, what happened at my uncle’s house…”

He trailed off, teeth worrying at his lip with an intensity equal to his scratches. Draco, breathless in listening to Harry’s words, found his eyes couldn’t move from Harry’s fingers. He hated it, hated how they seemed to want nothing more than to rip skin from bone.

“When I came to the realization that what my uncle was doing was… was really _wrong…_ I didn’t want anyone to know. _Don’t_ want them to know. I don’t want them to see that side of me, to see what happened. There were a few times when I think some people suspected that what went on at my uncle’s home was different. Was _wrong._ There was a lady who used to live across the road… and then just before I met Dumbledore last year, before I came to Hogwarts.” Harry paused, swallowing thickly as though his throat pained him. Draco couldn’t blink, frozen by the words and the steady motions of Harry’s fingers. “Mr. Martinoff… he seemed to honestly _know._ The questions he asked, they terrified me that someone would suspect, no, that they would _know_ something. I freaked out, and my magic just sort of overflowed. I’ve always tried to hide it, to keep it locked away… I’ve tried not to really think about it…”

Dragging his gaze to Harry’s face, Draco’s faint breaths caught. Tears glistened in his friend’s eyes, sending the reflection of yellows into small starbursts of light. He wasn’t looking at Draco any more but at something to the side of his head, into the distance. Draco’s own tongue seemed as stilled as his mind. He couldn’t fathom what words to say; not a single one in his vast vocabulary seemed appropriate.

“I don’t know, even though I know what he did was wrong, I still… It’s still my fault that it even happened, so- “

“What?” Finally, Draco found his voice. Tightness seized his chest in a grasp fiercer than jealousy, more powerful even than anger. He recognised it as the swollen face of the feeling he’d felt not two months before, when he’d visited Stephen Defaux’s house in Paris. _“Your_ fault? How is what that… that man _did to you_ possibly _your_ fault?”

Harry was shaking his head, chin trembling. “I was the one who chose to live with him. Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia… I-I hated it at their house. Or I guess I hated it; it…it was really hard there, really, really... Anywhere would have been better than there. But when I was eleven and my letter came, and then Hagrid and McGonagall and Dumbledore all tried to convince me to come to Hogwarts, but Uncle Vernon said that if I refused that he’d let me live with Uncle Stephen, and I didn’t know what to do, but anywhere was better than there, and if I came to Hogwarts then I’d still have to go back _there,_ and…’

The words spilled out in a torrent of babbles, nearly incomprehensible. Before Harry could finish, the trembling of his chin spread throughout his entire body, the tears springing from his eyes. With heart-wrenching sobs that shook his entire frame, the slight boy dissolved into sobs. Not his hands that rose to cover his face nor back hunching to curl in upon himself could hide the drops that poured down his cheeks.

Draco was rendered speechless, and not only because of the overload of information that had fallen into his lap. In that moment, he couldn’t have cursed himself more; for not being more supportive, for attempting to pry the smothered knowledge of his friend’s past from its hidden cache. For letting those years of his childhood even happen in the first place. It was irrational, a small part of him knew, but the tearing in his chest as the sight of Harry folded in upon himself in misery spared no thought for it. Draco had seen him cry a number of times over the Christmas break, but each time he seemed horribly embarrassed by the experience and dismissed it as tiredness, quickly collecting himself once more.

Draco knew it was more than tiredness. From what he’d deduced of Harry’s past from his mother’s scant words, if anyone had a reason to cry it was Harry. Yet now, even worse than that, he understood. Realised that Stephen Defaux wasn’t the half of it. That there was more. And that a significant proportion Harry seemed to accept as his due because he’d ‘chosen it’.

The argument of the morning seemed so meaningless in the face of such a reality. Thrusting aside any lingering awkwardness, Draco reached across the chair and pulled Harry into his arms. His friend was sobbing so heavily that he shook Draco in his seat with each gasp. Pressing Harry’s head into his shoulder, he wrapped tight arms around his back and crushed him in an embrace for all he was worth. Within moments the shoulder of his robes was a sodden mess. Draco found that he couldn’t care less.

It didn’t matter. Their argument didn’t matter. The meeting with Black didn’t matter. Hell, even his confession but moments before didn’t matter. He wasn’t sure if he wanted to hear any more of Harry’s past, not if it hurt him so much to tell it, to relive it. It was a foreign experience, but for the first time in his life Draco wished only to support his friend as he poured out his grief. To offer support like Harry had supported him when he was floored by his father’s death, by his mother’s torture.

He wanted it so badly it almost hurt.

The room warmed gradually with the steady warmth emitting from the fireplace. Or perhaps it was the warmth of their embrace. They remained in each other’s arms for what could have been hours. Draco found he didn’t care to spare a thought for the passing of time. He could have sat there for days if Harry needed it. Eventually, however, the sobs quieted to soft huffs and finally sniffles. Neither of them made to shift from each other’s hold, however. It was simply too comfortable.

Finally, the silence was broken. Surprisingly, it was Harry who felt the need to speak first, something that Draco realized only with mild curiosity as he turned the full weight of his attention onto his friend. Harry’s voice was thick, the French in his accent more pronounced in the aftermath of his tears. “I feel… dirty. Not all the time, just… a lot of the time. Mostly I can ignore it, but when people touch me…” He shifted as though struck by an itch, and Draco thought for a sad moment that he would draw away. He stilled a moment later, however. “I don’t know why it is, but it’s different with you. I don’t feel like you’re going to pull away from me stained, because I don’t… think you could be stained. So when you kissed me I thought… but then you didn’t say anything, and I was worried you’d hate me, that maybe you wouldn’t want to even be my friend anymore- “

“Stop.” Draco tightened his arms unconsciously. The warmth that had flooded through him at Harry’s words, ‘ _it’s different with you_ ’, was smothered by those that followed. “You thought I didn’t… like it? What, that I didn’t want to kiss you again because I I thought you were dirty?”

Harry didn’t say anything. He didn’t have to. The heavy, resigned weight of his forehead on Draco’s shoulder said it all. An upwelling of anger rippled through Draco; not at Harry, and not even at himself. He just felt angered by the situation itself. “Harry, you’re not dirty.”

“You don’t unders-“

“No, maybe not, but as an outside observer, let me tell you this: you are _not_ dirty.” Pulling away from Harry barely a handful of inches, he slipped his hands up to grasp the sides of his head, holding it still to meet his eyes. They were wide and reddened, as red as his cheeks, and his lashes clung together in spikes that nearly brushed the lenses of his glasses, but Draco barely noticed. “The only reason I didn’t say anything was because… I thought you wouldn’t want me to.”

Harry stared at him silently. His eyes flickered between Draco’s searchingly. A swirl of tears pooled within them once more, but he blinked rapidly and they disappeared. “Why wouldn’t I want you to?”

Sighing heavily, Draco dropped his head onto Harry’s shoulder in an exchange of the positions they’d previously held. He felt his body sag into Harry, and Harry let it. They rested easily, coiled around one another as they were. Draco didn’t really know how it had happened, but during the course of their swift embrace Harry had slumped half in his lap, one of Draco’s legs hefted in the couch to somehow manage to wrap around him. It felt remarkably natural for such an unnatural position. “I knew about your uncle. Defaux. Or at least, I knew a little bit. And what with how you don’t like people touching you…”

“But you’re different.”

Draco laughed harshly. “Yeah, I know that. Merlin, do I know that. But still, something like _kissing?”_ He turned his head slightly so that he could just peer at Harry’s profile from where his head still propped on his shoulder. “After what’s happened to you? What _that man_ did to you?”

Harry flinched at the reference, at perhaps a memory, but recovered with only an expression of confusion. “What has that to do with you?”

“I just meant with kissing. Or with any sort of, well, intimacy.” It was coming out wrong, Draco knew, but his tongue felt heavy and unwieldy in his mouth. For once it seemed incapable of handling itself. “How could you _not_ feel uncomfortable with that?”

The confusion on Harry’s face persisted for moments longer. He sniffed slightly, brushing aside the last of his tears. A frown gradually settled upon his brow, puzzlement settling in, until suddenly comprehension dawned. “You thought I wouldn’t want you to because it would be like… _him?”_

Draco hesitated but eventually nodded, turning to bury his head into Harry’s shoulder once more. And nearly fell off the side of the seat when a hand cuffed his ear suddenly. It was gentle but he still started up abruptly, blinking into the frown of annoyance upon Harry’s face. It was such an abrupt turnabout to his sorrowful expression moments before, the grief that had left Harry a trembling mess, that Draco considered he could have been another person entirely simply wearing a glamour. Harry was pretty good at those.

“Why on earth would you think that I would consider you anything like him?”

Mouth opening and closing mutely, Draco struggled once more to find his words. “It’s a natural response. The only _realistic_ response, for someone whose been through- “

“Please don’t tell me what I’ve been through, Draco. I’m fairly sure I experienced it differently to how you obviously think.” Harry held up a hand to forestall further argument and pinned Draco with a hard stare. It was uncanny, the change of character. But then, Harry had always seemed able to bounce back from just about anything with admirable speed. Draco wasn’t sure how healthy it was just to dust the long minutes of heartbroken crying under the rug, but chose to overlook it for now. The force of Harry’s words very well demanded it. “What, you think that being with you, that kissing you, would just make me think of him?”

Shrugging, Draco dropped his eyes to the fist Harry curled in his lap. He couldn’t deny the question, because it was true. How could a victim of abuse, of rape – he nearly flinched at the thought, the first time he had acknowledged it for what it was – possibly see something even remotely intimate as being anything but repulsive?

Harry’s puff of a sigh drew his attention. “You’re not my uncle, Draco.”

“I bloody well hope not- “

“Please stop talking.” Draco did. “I mean that I doubt anything that ever happens between us could remind me of him. Because I don’t think that you could ever be anything like him, even if you wanted to be.”

Fighting to make sense of his thoughts, Draco ran a hand through his hair. “Even with that, I wouldn’t want to push you.”

“I don’t see it as ‘pushing me’.”

“Maybe not, but even suggesting as much- “

“Would you rather I suggested it?” Harry cocked his head, regarding Draco flatly.

Swallowing, Draco licked his lips. “I can’t imagine you ever initiating something like a physical relationship.” It was perhaps a little blunt, but true nonetheless. Harry would _never…_ Well, there was the hugging, but that was different. The Hero Complex thing; his mother had said so.

Harry finally seemed to deflate some of his annoyance. Raising a hand he rubbed absently at his collar. Without thought, Draco reached up and grasped his fingers, wordlessly dropped their linked fingers to his lap. Harry started at the motion confusedly, as though he hadn’t realised he’d even lifted his hand, but a moment later gave a small, grateful smile nonetheless. “You’re right, I probably wouldn’t. I’ve never been particularly good with people.”

“How do you mean?”

He shrugged. “It’s not like I’ve been hated or bullied or anything. No more than the next loner, I suppose. But I was never really in the position to be receptive to friendships. When I lived with my aunt and uncle, there was my cousin who basically forced me into isolation; he didn’t like it when I tried to make friends. On top of that, I moved between schools so often because they worried that if I stayed in one place for too long that people would notice I was ‘different’.

“Then after that, in Paris,” Harry shrugged again. “People always look at the new kid like a shiny new toy, but after a while the excitement dies down and you just turn into another piece of furniture. Just… there. I don’t know, maybe I _do_ drive people away. Maybe I’m just unapproachable. I can’t imagine I’m that easy to talk to a lot of the time.” He smiled ruefully, a smile that fell moments later into a frown. “To be honest, I don’t even know why anyone at Hogwarts would want to be my friend. I don’t even know why _you_ are.”

Staring down at their clasped hands, Draco stroked a finger over the knuckles of each of Harry’s fingers. He knew why; both his desire to _be around_ Harry simply to be around him as well as his mother’s explanation. His thoughts seeped absently through his lips. “Mother said something about that. That your magic was probably unconsciously reaching out to people and drawing them to you. That it wouldn’t effect Muggles because they’re not sensitive enough to recognise it.” He snorted derisively. Foolish Muggles. How much they missed.

“It’s… magical?”

It was the horror in Harry’s near whisper that caused Draco to look up and meet his gaze. The pain suddenly writ across his face immediately alerted him to the error of his words. “No! No, I mean, yes, the magic drew people to you but- “

“So I’m _forcing_ people to like me?” Harry looked positively mortified. His shoulder hunched up nearly to his ears and his face was wrinkled into an image of hurt. In a spasm he tried to jerk his hand from Draco’s.

Draco locked his fingers tightly. “No. That is _not_ what I meant. Just listen to me.” He caught and held Harry’s eyes, blown even wide once more in the midst of his horror, and held them as firmly as he held his hand. “My mother explained it to me. That your magic, it’s not making people _like_ you. It’s simply drawing you to the attention of fellow magic-users. Sort of like a beacon is how I understand it. And people that respond to it, they’re just as likely to be your enemy as your friend.”

The tension in Harry’s shoulders held for a moment longer before gradually easing. His brow remained furrowed, however, his expression wary. “Are you sure? How would you know that? How does something like that even happen?”

Shrugging one shoulder, Draco loosened his iron hold on Harry’s fingers. “Just like any accidental magic, I suppose. And how does anyone know anything about magic? I guess it’s happened before.”

“But how do you know?”

“Mother knows about _everything._ I trust what she says. Don’t you?”

Once more, the bluntness was probably a little harsh, but Draco didn’t care. Besides it was short and to the point and Harry usually responded well to both approaches. It appeared he did this time too, for after a pause for consideration he nodded slowly. “Al…right. I suppose.”

“Don’t take your friendships so lightly, Harry,” Draco murmured, hearing his mother’s words as his own. “They’re real, and something so real can’t be fabricated with magic. Only cheap copies are built like that.”

The small, wavering smile that spread across Harry’s face was like the first rays of sunshine through a cloudy sky. He dropped his chin, but not to hide his expression as he usually did. Draco watched as he deliberately cupped their interlocked fingers in his remaining hand. “Thanks, Draco.”

It was a spur of the moment thought, but Draco felt that, for whatever reason, now was the right time to voice it. “Harry, you know I really do love you.” And because it was true: “I think I always will.”

There was no embarrassment this time. Somewhere over the course of the last half-hour, Draco seemed to have grown past such feelings of immaturity. What could possibly have been so embarrassing about speaking the honest truth?

Harry raised his eyes slowly. The stare he gave Draco was blank at first, before it slowly began to morph into one of wonder and disbelief. “You mean actual love?”

Nodding forcibly, Draco leant forward slightly until their foreheads just softly touched. The slight coolness to Harry’s face felt almost damp to the touch. “I really do. I love everything about you, even when you annoy me.” He smirked at the soft snort Harry gave in reply. “I do. Really. Because if it’s you who does them, then they’re not as annoying even by half.” His smile widened. “And just so you know, when I kissed you, I really meant it. And if given the choice, I’d do it again in a heartbeat, even if it meant that it would only ever be that one time.” The words spilled forth fluidly, without a hitch. With the same ease that he so often found himself with words.

The wonder and surprise on Harry’s face was simply beautiful to behold. It made light of Draco’s words before, when he had so easily accepted his confession, but Draco didn’t care. Right _now,_ it seemed that he was entirely aware of the full meaning of Draco’s statement. Taking an audible breath, he closed his eyes for a moment. When he opened them, a smile so wide, wider and brighter than any Draco had ever seen before, lit up his face.

“I love you too. Always.”

There was no hesitation. Perhaps he should have asked; it would have been right, given the circumstances. Harry had just been crying on Draco’s shoulder over his memories, the abuse of his past, and was likely emotionally exhausted and in no fit state to properly receive such an outpouring of emotions.

But Draco couldn’t help himself. Leaning forwards, with measured haste, he cupped Harry’s face in his hands and gently eased their lips together. It was a kiss of softness, of tenderness, of nervous affection, but with all the sincerity he could muster.

And when Harry responded in kind, the world could have fallen of its axis for all he knew. He would not have cared a wit.


	25. Fear For A Friend

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Thank you thank you thank you to my wonderful commenters! So fantastic to hear from you, and to hear from people that I recognise. Again! I feel like I'm actually getting to know some people. Is that weird??  
> I can't tell you how much I appreciate everyone who's taken a moment to leave a word. Thank you so much!

"I am going to tie you down to the bed and never let you up again, Neville Longbottom."

Harry shared a glance with Neville as his friend ducked to escape the piercing ferocity of Ginny Weasley's glare. For all his rolling eyes, there was a hint of uneasiness in his expression that suggested he didn't entirely believe the girl to be blowing hot air.

Ginny had planted herself at the side of Neville's hospital bed as soon as they had entered the wing, positioned between him and the door as though she thought her boyfriend might make an attempt to flee. Harry thought it unlikely. Given the state of him, he doubted Neville would be moving at all for at least… the next half an hour. Until Madam Pomfrey fixed him up.

Medical Magic was fantastic like that.

Ringing Neville's bed, Harry, Draco, Blaise and Pansy stood to one side while Ron, Hermione and Ginny were stationed on the other. Neville was shrunken upon himself somewhat at being the center of all the attention, but the sheepish grin he offered made it more of a comical than a nervous response. A strange impression to present when he seemed to have been attacked by a stovetop.

For burns covered his arms up to his sleeves in streaking scorches. Similar streaks marred his face, one down the left cheekbone and another nearly perpendicular across his other cheek. A rusty stain that was most likely blood discoloured the collar of his shirt, and that wasn't the only stain. He looked dirty, and haggard, and exhausted. Although, he also looked quite pleased with himself, truth be told.

"How did it go? Did you get it?" Ron, pointedly ignoring the glare Ginny directed towards him, planted his hands onto Neville's bed in a display of eager curiosity.

Neville's smile broadened significantly at the question, flashing slightly crooked teeth. Casting a quick glance around the otherwise empty hospital wing, he leant forwards conspiratorially. As one, all surrounding him leant in closer. "We got one! Dumbledore's incredible. I don't know how he's finding them, but it was definitely another one."

"It was really hidden in a vault at Gringotts?" Hermione wondered aloud, seemingly incredulous at the thought. Harry didn't really understand why – the Wizarding bank seemed an appropriate place to stash a sacred artifact, evil or not, given the degree of security it boasted – but didn't comment.

Nodding vigorously, Neville folded his arms across his chest. "I don't know whose vault it was, but it was pretty well guarded. Rather impressive, I might add."

"How do you mean?" Pansy asked, frowning and tilting her head questioningly. "The Parkinson vaults have some of the highest security money can buy, but it's hardly anything to gawk at."

"Well, I don't know what you've got, but a dragon seems pretty impressive to me."

Gasps whispered from every onlooker. Harry felt his own interest spark beyond even the wonder of a dragon guard; since partaking in Care of Magical Creatures classes, he had done substantial reading dragons themselves. More so because of their relation to hydras; the water beasts were something of a cross between sea serpents and dragons.

Ron's eyes shone with excitement. "A dragon. Guarding a vault at Gringotts.' His voice was filled with awe. "Bloody hell. You could have picked it had something special to guard."

"What, so the dragon did this to you?" Ginny drew Neville's attention once more, eyebrow raised. "You _fought_ a bloody dragon? Are you out of you mind, Neville? Was fourth year not an intimate enough experience for you? Did you feel the need to take another go at it?"

Harry actually understood the reference this time. He'd made good his promise to himself in the last week and actually asked Neville to prevail upon him the tales of his past adventures. They seemed unbelievable to say the least, and Harry would have suspected they were as much had Hermione not been there to back up every word. Ron's insistence didn't hold quite as much reliability as the Gryffindor girl's.

"Gin, it's not like I actually deliberately went and fought the dragon. I'm just saying it was there. Dumbledore cast some spell on it anyway, so it wasn't about to attack us." He smiled weakly, as though unsure if she would believe his words and pleading for her to do so. "Besides, if anything I'd expect the goblins to be the ones to attack us. They didn't seem too happy about us breaking into the vault. I think it was only because it was Dumbledore and his goblin friend that we made it out in one piece."

"If not from the dragon, then how did you get so badly burned then?" Draco, in a remarkably blunt manner, speared the heart of the matter and pinned Neville with his own question. He seemed nothing if not the simple information gatherer for the flatness of his words, but the fingers that gripped Harry's squeezed unusually tight. Harry hid his smile and gently squeezed back. A reassurance, it was; Draco was actually worried about Neville, and if the strength of his grip was any indication, he wasn't embarrassed that Harry knew it. It left Harry with a warm feeling blossoming in his chest.

"Oh, that?" Neville waved a hand, as though disregarding it as a mere trifling. "In the vault there was other security. Spells of some kind. One of them made everything you touched multiply. The other one turned it all bloody hot." He ran his hands over a burn on his arm. "Hence the burns."

_"Flagrante?"_

"Excuse me?" Neville turned bemusedly towards Hermione.

The girl sighed long-sufferingly. "The spell. The one that burned you. I'm assuming it was _Flagrante,_ a Burning Charm. Coupled with a Multiplying Charm, I can see why you got as seared as charred meat. Especially if you had to pick you way through it all looking for an unknown artifact."

"Wonderful image there, Hermione. I always love being likened to a dinner dish." Hermione only rolled her eyes in response to Neville's words. There was relief in her expression though that suggested she wasn't really as put out by the comment as she pretended. Neville obviously realized as much for he gave her a fond half-smile. "It's not like we didn't know what we were looking for, though. Dumbledore suspected it was Helga Hufflepuff's cup."

"Hufflepuff's cup? Why would You-Know-Who put a Horcrux in Hufflepuff's cup?" Blaise sounded genuinely baffled by the prospect. Draco and Pansy nodded in unison, agreeing with the sentiment. Harry suspected the skepticism was probably a Slytherin thing, but the reasoning soared right over his head.

Neville shrugged, wincing slightly as he pulled one of his burns the wrong way. "Dunno. We think – or Dumbledore thinks, anyway – that he might just be targeting powerful magical objects. I mean, Slytherin's ring, Hufflepuff's cup, Ravenclaw's diadem. It makes sense."

Harry nodded in time with his friends. Neville had discussed his and Dumbledore's theories more thoroughly in the weeks since he had rather forcefully insisted that they all, Slytherin's included, come into the 'know'. The proper explanation of how he'd found Ravenclaw's diadem had left them all blinking incredulously. That he felt drawn to the object? It was just a little bit creepy, in Harry's opinion.

Ginny sighed heavily, her anger seeming to deflate. With the heat gone, she looked nothing if not an average teenage girl, fretting over the foolishness of her boyfriend. She slumped heavily onto the side of Neville's bed, hands hovering for a moment over one scorched arm, before slipping her fingers into his. "Thank Merlin you're safe."

Smiling in relief – perhaps at avoiding another reprimand – Neville patted Ginny's hand fondly. "I'm alright. Really. How could anything go wrong when I'm with Dumbledore?" Ginny only nodded in reply, eyes fixed firmly on their joined hands. She looked on the verge of tears in the absence of anger.

It was at that moment that Madam Pomfrey decided to descend upon them in a flurry of motion. "Alright, that's enough from you all. Mr. Longbottom has had enough excitement for one day; I think it's about time you left him to some peace."

Fingers fiddling in the pockets of her mediwitch robes, Pomfrey pulled out a trio of vials of varying shapes and colours. She set them firmly at Neville's bedside. Neville released a groan. "Miss, do I have to have to –"

"I'll be hearing none of that, Mr. Longbottom. You'll drink them all, or you won't be seeing the outside of this hospital until you're old and grey." With a wave of her hand, Pomfrey shooed the rest of them from the room. None complained, nearly fleeing from her command like scattered pigeons. As Harry glanced once more towards Neville over his shoulder before leaving, he was surprised to see Ginny still propped on the side of the bed. Pomfrey didn't object, however, moving around the girl as though she wasn't even there.

Which was rather unexpected. Perhaps the woman did have more compassion than her severe exterior suggested. One could hardly mistake the look of worry playing across Ginny's face for anything else

The double doors to the Hospital Wing closed behind them all with a hollow click.

"Well, I'm so glad we got up at the crack of dawn for a five minute conversation," Blaise grumbled, his face a mask of self-pity. Ron patted his shoulder consolingly.

"Honestly, Blaise, it's not that early. And besides," Pansy looped her arm through his as she spoke. "It means you have more time to spend with me." The smile she gave him was too bright and innocent to be genuinely sweet as she tugged him down the corridor. Ron and Hermione fell in just behind, with Harry and Draco following silently in their wake.

Hermione sighed heavily, rubbing a hand across her forehead. "I'm glad he's alright. I could have had a heart attack last night when McGonagall told us he was up in the Hospital Wing."

"I still think we should have paid him a visit, even after what McGonagall said," Ron maintained, but Hermione waved off the suggestion.

"How exactly would the two of us been able to sneak out of the dorms at such an hour? And before you pull the prefect card, Ginny would have spit fire had she been left behind."

"And don't forget us," Blaise chimed in, glancing over his shoulder towards the Gryffindors pointedly. "I would never forgive you if you didn't drop by to invite us too."

"Like you would have actually gotten back out of bed at midnight to make a trip through the halls, Blaise." Draco drawled. He rolled his eyes at the grin Blaise flashed him. "Besides, you would have had to have dropped by Harry's rooms to pick us up too, because some of us don't have a means of distant communication in this castle. And speaking of," he frowned at the back of Pansy's head. "When did this little two-way journal enterprise even begin?"

Harry had been wondering the same since Pansy had filled them in of Hermione's information earlier that morning. The journals acted something like an instant messenger; a word written in one would transfer immediately to the corresponding journal. A rather ingenious invention, he thought. Almost like a telephone. He glanced curiously towards Hermione and noted the slight smugness of her expression that was all too familiar.

"We set it up a few weeks before the end of last term with the intention of sharing study notes over the Christmas break. Though is saying so," Hermione fastened her eyes meaningfully on the back of Pansy's head too. The Slytherin girl deliberately ignored both trained gazes. 'Some of us didn't bother to use it for studies _at all_.'

"My holiday preoccupations are of little relevance at the present situation, Hermione. I believe we have matters of greater importance to discuss."

"Like the Horcruxes?"

Hermione shushed Ron wildly at his words and he had the grace to look abashed. In a stage whisper, she muttered, "not in the open, Ron, for goodness sake. These things are better left for when we are in privacy."

"Right, right." Ron scratched the side of his head and gave a not-at-all subtle glance around him for possible eavesdroppers. "Sorry."

Not that there would have been anybody around to hear. On a Saturday morning, no one much awoke before seven o'clock and those that did didn't leave the dormitories before eight at the earliest. Even with spring on its way, the hallways retained a chill that hastened footsteps and elicited shivers from underdressed students.

It should just be about seven o'clock by now, Harry considered. Breakfast would be up and ready by the first resounding chime of the clock tower. And as they walked, just as the thought occurred to him, the distant gong sounded throughout the hallways in faint yet audible chimes.

"Ah! Breakfast!" Ron exclaimed, sounding positively delighted at the prospect of a meal he partook daily.

"And you know, the earlier you get there the choicer portions you receive," Blaise informed him with a mischievous wriggle of his eyebrows. He grunted a moment later when Pansy elbowed him without a sideways glance.

"What? How come I never knew about this?" Ron turned to Hermione. "Why do we never come down earlier? It took me six years to realise I've been missing out!"

Sighing like a long-suffering mother, Hermione shook her head. "That's because you've never intentionally awoken before eleven o'clock on a Saturday morning, Ronald. Even during exam period- "

"Especially during exam period. How else am I going to procrastinate?"

_"Ron,"_ Hermione chided, but she chuckled along with the rest of them.

"Why you even need to try for the 'choicer portions' is beyond me, Blaise," Draco muttered. "You have menu order, don't you?"

Blaise turned and shook his finger at Draco over his shoulder. "If I used it willy-nilly then everyone would know the secret."

"Is that such a bad thing?" Harry murmured, wondering aloud.

'Of course! Wait time is a priority, and entirely absent when you're the only one dining at the restaurant. As it is now I've basically got the kitchen staff to myself.'

Harry could have anticipated Hermione's response, but apparently Blaise didn't, for he looked surprised when she strode to his side and began a long-winded admonishment about the both the witting and unwitting abuse of house elves. Although, at least she seemed to acknowledge that Blaise was half in the latter category.

The Great Hall was indeed empty when they entered, but as expected the four tables presented a spread of steaming trays, bowls, racks of toast, and gleaming cutlery. Without comment or correspondence, the small group moved towards the Slytherin's table and settled themselves onto the pew-like benches, chatting in a mixture of house-elf-rights debate, condolences to Neville, and speculations of how to spend the rest of the day.

"It's getting warmer, but I still don't want to go outside. It was drizzling this morning and looks like it will only get worse. We could head to the library," Hermione considered aloud, only to be cut off by Pansy.

"Hermione, my dear, I appreciate your enthusiasm for studies – really I do – and will strive to abuse that wonderful intellect of yours to its fullest, but please let us do something else."

"I'm in agreement with Pansy," Ron uttered around a mouthful of toast. Despite the concurrence, Pansy looked less than thrilled with his words. Or maybe that was the half-chewed bread that fall from his mouth in accompaniment.

"We could just go to the prefect's rooms. Lets face it, they're intended for four out of the six of us," Draco suggested, sipping at a cup of tea with polished decorum that Harry thought almost comically out of place in the casual setting of the dining area.

"Oh, that sounds like a good idea. But Draco, I've been meaning to ask you about something…"

Harry idly nibbled on his own piece of toast, the words of his friends wafting around him like the aroma of the morning bacon. It was remarkably peaceful and mellow, especially given that they had only just been confronted with Neville's hospitalized status. Perhaps it was the simple fact of seeing him awake, alive and well, that had eased the tension that had gripped each of them since learning of his injuries. For Harry, the nausea that had welled in his gut from the moment Pansy had knocked on his door not an hour ago had certainly quelled.

According to Hermione and Ron, Neville had returned the night before. Exhausted and in not a little bit of pain, he had gone straight to the Hospital Wing and to sleep foregoing even Pomfrey's attempts to administer the Burn-Healing salves. McGonagall had alerted the Gryffindor's to their friend's return, but given the lateness of the hour had forbidden them from visiting until the next day.

Hermione had, naturally, journal-messaged Pansy, who had told Blaise, who had, after a brief meeting to discuss their own helplessness, had proceeded to insist they sleep. No one could blame him for his suggestion, for they had all done the same with varying degrees of success. Neville had left on another mission with Dumbledore earlier that evening and still hadn't returned hours later. Confined by curfew – in place despite the prefect badges of more than half their number – they had divided and trailed worriedly to their respective dormitories. Harry and Draco had similarly been in a state of concern; Harry doubted he'd gotten more than an hours sleep the previous night.

Not that it really mattered. Not now that Neville was back and safe. He would have to talk to Hermione about perhaps getting a journal of sorts worked out between them, though. It wasn't the first time communication had been on the side of lacking.

Hermione, in all of her morning glory, had insisted upon seeing to Neville as early as possible the next day. Pansy had reasoned that Pomfrey would be unlikely to admit visitors before seven o'clock. So naturally, they had arrived at the door at six-thirty. And proceeded to wait nearly half an hour for Pomfrey to grudgingly allow them into the walls of her domain. Ginny had been an angry, panicking wreck by the time she stepped through the doors. Perhaps that was why Pomfrey had allowed her to stay.

Contemplating, Harry realised not for the first time just how odd it was that he was a part of such a party. He hadn't lied to Draco in their discussion a week past when he'd said he wasn't good with people; in his entire memory, he couldn't recall ever having a real friend. There had been class working partners, as well as a few other outsiders who sometimes simply sat with one another, but they could hardly be classed as friends. And for Harry to have found some in such a diverse and welcoming group… he had no trouble in believing that magic was involved.

The talk with Draco over a week ago had been enlightening on a number of counts, and not simply for the revelation of his accidental magic. Harry still wasn't sure how he felt about that, but Draco had insisted upon numerous instances that his friends were his friends because they wanted to be, not because he forced it upon them. And Harry was starting, just starting, to think that Draco could possibly be right. Maybe.

Of course, that wasn't the only revelation. Draco's own admittance of his feelings had been astounding to say the least. Harry wasn't stupid; he'd never been the subject of another's affections at all, far be it from the sort Draco had suggested, but he had seen hints to suggest that maybe Draco liked him at least a little more than when they had first become friends. A little more and in a little different way.

It had no small part to do with Draco's kiss, which was in actuality the catalyst for his realization. It should not have been anything exceptional, truly. Harry wasn't unfamiliar with kisses, much to his deliberate forgetfulness. Except that this one came from Draco and it had been entirely different. But then Draco had said nothing and after a brief spell in which Harry had worried his friend would withdraw from him, had worried further over the brief spout of uncharacteristic agitation that could have really been over something else entirely, he had overlooked it. Pondering the aftermath, Harry quickly considered that the agitation was indeed likely due to another cause entirely.

Perhaps Draco just didn't see that much in a kiss?

The jealousy was another thing. It had taken a little while for Harry to realise the reality of what it was, for Draco's jealousy was on an entirely different spectrum to the possessiveness his uncle showed. Even so, Harry was almost certain that, for whatever reason, it had been jealousy. He was a little ashamed to realise he felt guilty pleasure at the understanding. A delight that was even more baffling because of his worry over what exactly the kiss had meant for Draco, and why he had neglected to bring it up since.

So Harry had found himself hanging somewhere on cloud nine when Draco had confessed that he loved him. At first, he hadn't believed it, had considered it a passing fancy and as changeable as the moon. He could accept that. He would accept anything from his friends, even if amicability turned to dislike. Because they were his friends, his first friends, and he loved them enough that what they had already given him was… it was enough.

That was until the depth of Draco's feelings were truly enforced upon him. It was breathtaking to behold, that simple, short confession of affection – no, of profound _love_ – that had started so haltingly and then flowed so effortlessly. Genuinely. The light in Draco's eyes was beautiful, the slightly nervous tilt to his eyebrows tender and the tension in his fine features filled with wary hope.

Had Harry not already been aware of his feelings, he would have tumbled into infatuation in that moment simply because it was _that moment_. As it was, Harry was not naïve enough to be unaware of his own feelings. He knew he cared for Draco, cared for him more than anyone else in the world. He supposed he'd known for a while, but talking with Sirius had simply made that knowledge consciously realized. And in the face of Draco's own profession of love, his hesitant, desperate kiss, Harry could hardly keep his own upwelling of feelings in check.

So he'd kissed Draco back.

It had been perfect. And Harry had been telling the truth, at least in regard to Draco's fears. Draco was so different to his uncle that the two experiences were nigh incomparable. Yes, the dark shadow of memory did flicker on the edges of his consciousness, but the simple feel of Draco, of his lips, of his fine hair as Harry brought a hand up to touch it hesitantly, the warmth of his skin; how could he possible even consider what had been with his uncle to be even on the same plane of existence?

It was almost like the fight had never happened. Or, it had happened, but their bond had only grown stronger, firmer, for the experience. Not that they had ever been particularly distant with one another, either physically or emotionally. Harry had spent the majority of the term holding Draco's hand, after all. He couldn't help himself; it was comforting, steadfast like a lifeline. They'd received some questioning glances for it at first but generally there had been little to no comment.

Harry had wondered whether they should tell their friends about the most recent development in their relationship. Draco had simply shrugged, waving it off as inconsequential.

"If they find out, they find out. Does it really matter? It's not about them, anyway."

He was right, of course. And Harry shouldn't really care. Only, he knew that relationships between two men were often disapproved of – even actively discriminated against – by many. Or at least they were in the Muggle world. He wasn't so sure about the human world. Harry himself was ambivalent on the subject; his own experiences had left him somewhat… at odds on the subject, his perspective skewed. How could he predict how others would respond?

He needn't have worried. When they'd seated themselves down with their friends the next morning, Pansy had taken one look at them and declared, "oh, finally!" She and Blaise had shared a satisfied smirk, before raising suggestive eyebrows towards Draco.

"Gotten together, have you, you two?" Blaise's asked with an almost predatory smile. At first, Harry had thought that it was their argument of the previous day that the Slytherins were solely referring. Or he had, until the Gryffindors arrived, dropping heavily into their seats, and Hermione had blinked rapidly as she shifted her gaze between the two of them.

"Oh, so you two are dating now?"

Neville and Ron had started in surprise, but while Neville had simply turned towards them, a slow smile spreading across his face, Ron had frowned questioningly at Hermione.

"What are you talking about?'

"Please tell me you aren't that dense," Hermione huffed with that sigh that surfaced so often around Ron.

Ron shifted uncomfortably in his seat. "'Course not. It's pretty obvious." His own smile flashed across his face as he turned towards Harry and Draco. "Congrats, you two. Bout time. If I'd known a fight was all it took to nudge you along- " He cut off abruptly in an 'oof' as Neville elbowed him, his own head buried in his free hand in sympathetic embarrassment.

Feeling his cheeks flair, Harry dropped his eyes from the group of his grinning friends, nearly sinking into Draco's shoulder. Far be it from disapproval or bafflement, Slytherins and Gryffindors alike seemed to be active supporters of the development in his and Draco's relationship. Harry wasn't entirely sure in that moment whether such was, in fact, any better. How had they even known in the first place? Had someone scrawled a declaration on Harry's forehead without his notice? It was mortifying.

In contrast, Draco appeared quite simply unaffected by the teasing. With cool collectedness, he's raised an eyebrow at Ron and drawled, "yes, almost as obvious as yourself and Hermione. Tell me, when are you actually going to ask her on a date, Weasley? Or would you rather I ask her for you?"

Spluttering wordlessly, Ron spun his gaze between Draco's self-satisfied smirk and Hermione who suddenly seemed to be trying to sink beneath the table. The bushy-haired girl was as flamingly red as Harry felt. He almost felt sorry for her, though not quite.

"Ah, that's true, Ron," Blaise interjected enthusiastically. "Let's face it, we all knew you and Brown weren't going to last. Not when you were making eyes at Hermione all the time." Said girl released a whimper and buried herself further in her arms folded before her on the table. Draco, offering a small smile to Harry, tugged him into sitting on the bench beside him and idly began picking at breakfast. And that was, quite simply, the end of it.

Truth be told, not all that much had changed in their relationship since they'd become aware of the extent of their mutual feelings. Harry and Draco had been holding hands more than even the love-struck Ginny and Neville since the beginning of term – which Harry had never, until that moment, really considered all that odd – and generally spent more time with one another than they did with anyone else. Draco slept with Harry in Featherwood's rooms anyway – Blaise appeared to have been waiting for them to "finally tell each other already" just so that he could make suggestive insinuations about their sleeping arrangement – so nothing had changed there either.

The only thing that had really changed was the kissing. And Draco's tendency to simply want to hold Harry when they were together, but that was usually reserved for when they were alone. Harry didn't really understand Draco's need; before his own sudden desire to be in physical contact with Draco, he had been less than fond of such intimacy. The almost clasping hold Draco had on him was a little astounding. Almost like a frightened child would clutch their mother. But it wasn't uncomfortable – far from it in fact – so Harry didn't comment on it, let alone draw away. Rather, he was finding he rather looked forward to their evenings curled around one another before the dim fireplace, reading or exchanging quiet, broken conversation into the night. Even better, with each kiss, each handhold and each comforting embrace, the automatic rebirth of the memory of Stephen Defaux became less prominent.

Harry would never tell Draco that the memories were far from absent. It was a white lie, yes, but one that he felt was necessary. And only half a lie, for though the memories reared their ugly heads so frequently, they seemed unable to penetrate the feelings of comfort, of warmth, of love, that arose almost every moment of Draco's presence. He was able to simply revel in the intimacy of contact without fear of pushing things further.

For Harry didn't know how far that protective barrier of Love extended, and he didn't particularly want to find out, either. With unspoken agreement they capped the progression of their physical relationship from anything further, a fact that Harry was truly grateful for. Draco didn't seem to mind. Rather, Harry didn't feel even the faintest hint of pushiness from Draco to take build upon their intimacy. He didn't know if that was a good thing or a bad thing, but either way it was a show of Draco's consideration, he was sure. And the Love that flooded through Harry each time he considered it was enough to erase the uneasiness that arose with such contemplation.

They were perfectly fine just as they were. And Harry wouldn't want it any other way.

"Harry, you've got a letter," Draco's quiet voice muttered in his ear, drawing his attention from his half-eaten slice of toast. Following Draco's directive nod, he spied the giga raven perched in the rafters, a dark smudge in the paler shadows and the only deliverer to be seen in the hall.

The raven – one of giga raven's of House Black – seemed to have no sense of courier protocol; it arrived to offer Harry letters from Sirius whenever it saw fit. Luckily, so far the deliveries had been at meal times, though sporadic and usually either before the rest of the post or at dinner times. Harry was starting to suspect the bird coincided its timing as such so as to snag the off-cuts from the students who had become familiar with its near-daily visits. Still, at least it had seemed to develop some sense of etiquette; the bird rarely descended before Harry acknowledged it nowadays.

Raising a hand towards the bird in a waving signal, Harry hastily cleared a space on the table for its landing. Just in time, too, for in a flurry of black feathers the enormous bird skittered to a stop before him. Scooping up a sliver of bacon, Harry handed the treat to the awaiting mouth of the bird and deftly untied the twine around its leg as it munched greedily. As soon as the small roll of parchment was freed, the bird spread its wings and sprung into the air once more.

"From Sirius?" Blaise asked, glaring at the bird as it departed through the owl shoots near the roof. He'd never taken to it bird since their first rather rocky meeting, though the raven seemed entirely oblivious to his dislike. Harry shrugged, nodded, and proceeded to unroll the letter. His friends had already turned back to their conversations after the brief interruption; it had become commonplace by now.

Sirius' scrawl was as messy as ever. Harry had received over half a dozen since they'd agreed to converse in such a way and it hadn't gotten any more legible. Draco had complained that it made his head hurt to try and decipher, but Harry had only smiled and replied that it was a good thing the letters weren't meant for him then. Not that it meant Draco didn't read them over his shoulder anyway.

_Dear Harry,_

_No, to answer your question, I don't think anything has changed that would make Buckbeak more snappy than usual. Honestly, a bird-brain if even I've met one. I regret ever claiming that he was my friend; he's not! Lyssy seems like a far more amicable companion. I'll try the aniseed, though. Maybe he does just want some pampering. Thanks for the suggestion._

_How'd it go talking to Neville? You know, I'm sure that if you asked him for the Map he'd give it to you. And before you pull the 'it's rightfully his' card on me again, remember: I made that Map (or at least partially), your Dad and Remus too, so if anything it's actually yours. Consider it a legacy of sorts. I still don't know how he managed to get his hands on it. I hope he's been using it for nothing but mischief; I would expect no less from the holder of the Marauder's Map. Oh, do I have some stories to tell you! Remind me to fill you in on the time your Dad and I found the room stuffed with firecrackers. I wonder if it's still there? Behind the portrait of that really ugly unicorn that looks like it's only got three legs and walks like it too. Do you know the one?_

_Speaking of the Map, I've got a couple of things that I've been meaning to send to you. Just some things from when I was at school that your Dad left in my care when he moved out with Lily. A couple of things I've acquired since, too, that I've wanted to give you for as long as I can remember. Would you like me to send them to you? I'd hoped you could find a use for them. Or maybe you can just pick them up if you drop around in the holidays. I've been touching up my motorcycle since your last letter – can't tell you how proud I am for your enthusiasm – so maybe we could go for a ride? I'll let you drive, at least a little bit. I promise!_

_Oh, and just so you know, I finally managed to open that old chest, the one I've been trying to get open for months. You remember I told you about it? I was hoping for at least a little bit of treasure of some sort. You know what was inside? Nothing! Not a thing! I feel slighted that I wasted so much time on it. That took serious dedication!_

_As always, looking forward to hearing from you,_

_Love Sirius_

Harry was smiling by the time he finished the letter. It was not particularly long, nor were the words anything of a private matter, but the simple act of sharing, of conversing with Sirius left him with a warm feeling that wasn't really all that much like what he felt with Draco but wasn't terribly different either. He folded the letter and tucked it gently into his pocket.

"Honestly, he sounds like a school boy." Draco flicked a piece of scrambled egg across his plate with his fork. "He's more like a school boy than you or me."

Harry shrugged. "Maybe he sort of is."

Rolling his eyes, Draco dropped his fork and propped his head onto his free hand. Harry was a little surprised at the slacker motion until a quick glance around them affirmed that the Great Hall was indeed still empty. "You seem quite happy about the fact."

"It's not that I'm happy about that in particular. It just nice, that I can talk to him about such inconsequential things. It feels sort of… companionable."

"He hardly knows you," Draco muttered, though his tone was more exasperated than annoyed. He hadn't fully gotten over his resentment towards Sirius – for reasons Harry still couldn't quite fathom; they seemed a little persistent even for mollified jealousy – but he was making a concerted effort to try. "I mean, does he actually think that you'd use the map to wander around the corridors after dark and pull practical jokes."

Harry smiled. "No, I don't think he actually does. But maybe he still holds hopes?"

"Did you ask Neville to give it to you?"

Shaking his head, Harry stacked his knife and fork in the middle of his plate, perfectly in line. A moment later the entire set, plate and cutlery both, disappeared. To the kitchens, he assumed. "No, but don't tell Sirius that. He'd just do it himself."

"Of course he would. He'd think it an act of valour on his part." Draco rolled his eyes as Harry's smile widened. "Don't look at me like that… bloody 'love Sirius'."

Harry covered his mouth to hide the further widening of his grin and slipped his arm through Draco's. "You're an idiot, you know."

Draco only hummed noncommittally, but wrapped his arm around Harry's right back.

* * *

 "I thought hydra preferred trout to salmon?"

At the sound of Luna's voice, Harry glanced up from the fish he was currently gutting. The Ravenclaw girl peered over his shoulder in open curiosity, her long blonde curls tickling his cheek and the puff of smoke from her breath warming the icy air.

"Hello, Luna. I didn't know you were coming today."

"Yes, well, Ginny wanted to come to see Neville and it's been a while so…" Trailing off, Luna glanced over her shoulder to her friend and Neville currently conversing with evident seriousness over a bucket of frozen fish. They huddled in scarf and thick coats, but the tension in the lines of both of their shoulders with still apparent. "I don't know what they're talking about but she seemed a bit upset."

Harry nodded slowly, following the direction of her gaze. He could guess what they were talking about. Neville had told him that morning that Dumbledore required him for another Horcrux search that evening. It had barely been a week since the last hunt and Neville had seemed uneasy about the most recent find to say the least. He confessed that he knew even less about what was going to happen that night than he had on previous excursions, but that Dumbledore had explained he would fill him in before they left.

Neville's nervousness had left Harry with a definite sense of foreboding and a very urgent desire to insist that Neville give this one a miss somehow. He knew it wouldn't happen; Neville had become distinctly more committed to the cause since he'd first spoken to Harry all those months ago. Harry hated to think that he had pushed his friend into such a state, but the thought stuck like toffee to teeth.

So it was no wonder that Ginny had sought him out, and had now deeply embedded Neville in a fierce conversation. Her eyebrows were drawn together, yet there was none of the anger that had featured so prominently each time Neville had returned from his trips with Dumbledore. Instead, worry flushed clearly upon her face. It was most likely that, like Harry, Ginny had picked up on Neville's own uneasiness.

"They both seem a little upset, don't they?" Luna murmured, her face filled with thoughtful curiosity as she turned slowly back towards Harry. If Harry didn't know her, he would have thought she cared precious little for the scene of upset before her. Instead, it was almost astoundingly clear that Luna was troubled. And a troubled Luna was an uncommon occurrence indeed.

"I'm sure they'll will be alright," Harry assured her, turning back towards the salmon. His hands were smothered in gloves far too large, but even so the iciness of the semi-frozen fish chilled his fingers. Add that to the cool weather, and the current Care of Magical Creatures class was shaping up to be far from the best. Not that there was much anyone could do about it. Besides, at least the snow had retreated, and it wasn't even raining. "Did you want to feed Squirt with me?"

The distraction was obviously simply that, but Luna only smiled her dreamy smile, a spark of interest springing into her eyes to replace the thoughtfulness, and nodded. Assisting Harry by scooping up the gutted fish in her bare hands, she followed him to the large pool that posed as the hydra's current enclosure.

Squirt – as it had been dubbed by Hagrid with great affection – had grown rather unremarkably in the past weeks. It was to be expected given its impressive lifespan, but the very degree of limited growth was almost astounding. Hagrid had claimed they wouldn't even need a larger bath for it for at least another two months. The Magical Creatures teacher had beamed proudly as he announced as much to the disappointment of his students; the only mar on his good humor was that he still didn't know the sex of the creature. Until then, the half-giant persisted in claiming it a 'he'; using the reference of 'it' was simply rude. Or so Hagrid claimed.

A spray of salty water nearly drenched Harry and Luna as they approached with their armload of salmon. A hissing shriek in a trio of different pitches bubbled into chortles of excitement as the hydra swung its scaly head into view. Squirt looked nearly ready to climb from the pool in its eagerness. Likely would have, had Hagrid not built the walls too high to loop even one paddle-like foot over. Not that it would be able to walk particularly well anyway, but simply flop in a shuffling wriggle as would be required if forced onto the land. Actual feet only developed on the rare occasion of infrequent land travel.

Standing a dozen feet from the edge of the enclosure, Harry and Luna lobbed the gutted fish at the hydra. Mandy and Susan had just finished their own batch of feeding around the other side of the pool and were heading back to the stand of barrels overflowing with Squirt's lunch. Hannah had opted out for the lesson; the increasingly greenish tinge to her face suggested that it was probably a wise choice on her part.

As each fish was lobed, one of the three heads darted with snake-like striking speed to snatch it from the air with pincher-like jaws. It was supposed to be a lesson in feeding behavior observation, though Harry found himself almost solely fixated on the yellowish fangs that snapped with each bite. The crunch of bones triggered an irrational upwelling of sympathy in him.

"Poor fish," Luna murmured at his side, as though she had been party to his thoughts. She gazed down at the limp salmon sadly for a moment before tossing it with startling accuracy towards the central hydra-head. Harry only nodded. It was all too easy to imagine himself sailing through the air to be snatched up by powerful jaws. Only, young as the hydra was, it would probably take a couple of bites to down a human. It couldn't have been all that much larger than a horse.

The continued in companionable silence until their arms were empty of fish, then simply waited, watching, as the hydra paddled up and down the side of its pool in a motion reminiscent of a pacing tiger. Harry wasn't particularly eager to leave and fetch more fish; he wasn't overly fond of gutting them, even if he could understand the necessity. It had to do with something in the salmon's respiratory system being indigestible or some such.

"I hope we get a hydra next year,' Luna sighed.

The words could have been to herself – likely were – but Harry replied anyway. "Your taking Care of Magical Creatures, then?"

Nodding, Luna looked down at her hands. They were free of blood, thankfully, which was a bonus of the fish being frozen, but were still slimed in a rather messy manner. "Yes. I do find them fascinating. Though I think Hagrid would probably do better to focus upon some of the more relevant Magical creatures."

Harry frowned, curious. "What sort of creatures?"

"Well, the Southern Minket would be quite relevant at the moment, given the reported rise in fondness for beef stew in Oxford. Or the aquavirus maggot; I suspect that's why we have to gut the salmon?" She turned to Harry expectantly, who could only blink blankly in reply. He was fairly certain that neither creature existed, but it was all part and parcel of Luna's eccentricities.

Finally he shrugged. "Maybe you could make some suggestions?"

Luna offered him a slow, broad smile. "You know, Harry, I think that's a wonderful idea." She nodded to herself, satisfied, and went back to looking at her hands. It took Harry a moment to realise that she was actually inspecting them for something. Possibly traces of the maggots she'd mentioned.

Harry found that he quite liked Luna. For all of her strangeness, her company rather relaxing. The softness of her voice would have been well put to singing lullabies, and she was hardly demanding of attention. She was rather quiet, in fact. Quite different to Hermione and Pansy, or Ginny for that matter. Not that he found the other girls tiring, but Luna had a quality about her that he didn't find at all exhausting to keep pace with. She rarely felt the need to fill silences with meaningless chatter, either, for which he was grateful.

Yes, he found he really quite liked spending time with Luna.

"So, we just throw them at it? Am I understanding this right?"

Turning, Harry reached out a hand to catch the fish threatening to tumble from Neville's arms at his striding approach. Somehow, in the time he and Luna had been feeding Squirt, Neville appeared to have emptied an entire barrel himself and disemboweled just about all the salmon inside. Ginny followed behind him, similarly laden with fish. It was a credit to her that, despite being free of the gloves and jacket that Harry and Neville wore, she didn't seem the least bit hesitant to handle them. Luna too, for that matter.

"That's right," Luna replied for him. "And try to aim for the left head if your throwing right-handed. The right if you're left-handed."

"Why?" Neville frowned, shifting his stinking burden awkwardly in his arms.

"It brings you good luck," she assured him in a manner so matter-of-fact that Harry was almost convinced it was actually true.

"Ri-ight," Neville replied. He didn't sound even nearly convinced, but acknowledged the suggestion nonetheless. "Hear that, Gin? Right hand to the left, left hand to the right."

"I heard," Ginny replied, smiling fondly at him and the four began throwing once more. Harry couldn't help aiming for the center head himself, despite Luna's words; the other three seemed to be purposely avoiding it in favor of luck-hunting.

Glancing at Ginny out of the corner of his eye, he was relieved to see the smile remained upon her lips. The sadness and worry still persisted, however; it was simply hidden. Not entirely effectively, either, for whenever Neville turned away from her, Harry would notice her brows knit once more and her jaw clench, only to smooth one more when he turned back.

_Poor Neville. And poor Ginny. How horrible it would be to be in her position._ Just thinking about it left Harry feeling sick with unease. He cared for Neville, truly he did. But if it had been Draco in his position? If Draco was the one disappearing to God-knows-where and harvesting dangerous magical objects from the caches of an evil madman? Harry didn't think he would be able to handle it half as well as Ginny did.

They finished their class with the last of the fish. Hannah had retrieved a degree of healthy colouration about halfway through and was even able to participate with a few throws towards the end. Ginny maintained her stoic positivity, and Neville seemed to be forcing good cheer. They wandered back to the castle deliberately avoiding anything that may reignite the sparks of concern.

As it turned out, Harry was right to have worried.

* * *

The pacing had been going on for so long that Harry marveled that a track had not been worn into the carpet. Ginny strode with blank determination before the fire of the Gryffindor common room. It was late – very late – and the other students had already sought their beds. Which was probably for the best, as Draco, Pansy and Blaise had adamantly insisted on joining their friends, regardless of whether it was in the Gryffindor common room or not.

Ginny was not the only one standing. Ron paced behind the two-seater couch, though notably slower than Ginny, with an expression of determination hiding the worry that wavered across his face every now and again. Harry wondered detachedly if that was a Weasley trait, being unable to remain seated in times of worry and stress.

Harry and Hermione sat before the chair Ron paced behind, with Draco leaning half-seated upon the arm. Blaise and Pansy had secreted themselves into the single-seater, Pansy nestled in Blaise's lap in an arrangement that Harry doubted she would have been caught dead in had anyone been around to see it.

Silence permeated the air. It was stifling, what with the undertones it carried. Tension thrummed through each and every one of them, and had been for a good twenty-four hours now. Since Neville had left.

It shouldn't have taken so long. Neither of the other trips had been nearly as long; simply a couple of hours at most in the evening and nowhere near as worrisome, even if Neville had returned somewhat worse for wear. That no one knew what was going on only made it that so worse.

Ginny, Hermione and Ron had sought out McGonagall that morning when they realised Neville hadn't returned the previous night. They'd met up with Harry and the Slytherins shortly after, heads bowed and shoulders slumping dejectedly. The Head of Gryffindor had provided no answers, though Hermione had claimed she thought the professor had seemed rather curt, frazzled even.

Something was wrong. Harry knew it, and he knew his friends did too. None of them voiced a word of suspicion, however. Doing so would only make their concerns real. So each had ploughed through the day in a fashion reminiscent of zombies, paying little to no attention to their classwork in favor of trekking through rings of unanswerable questions. It was a mark of the severity of the situation that no teacher pulled them up for their absentmindedness. Not even Snape had voiced a word of contempt to the Gryffindors. Harry suspected McGonagall had spread the word.

At dinner that evening, with still no sign of Neville, Ron and Hermione had quietly informed Harry, Draco, Pansy and Blaise that they'd be waiting up for the night until he got back.

"Ginny's a mess," Ron had muttered, his voice thick with worry both for his best friend and his sister. "I don't think she'll be sleeping tonight, and I wouldn't want to leave her up by herself, even if I thought I could sleep." Hermione had nodded in agreement.

"We'll join you," Pansy had replied quietly. "We'll come to Gryffindor tower at eleven. If he's not back by then, let us in. Or even if he is…"

"You're coming into Gryffindor tower?" Ron had sounded surprised rather than affronted at the suggestion. "Do you even know where it is?"

Pansy had smiled wanly. "Ron, I'm a Slytherin. Of course I know where it is."

Ron hadn't even the motivation to reply to such a comment.

Neville hadn't returned by eleven. The school clock distantly chimed midnight and there was still no sign of him. Ginny paused in her steps until the ringing gongs stopped, then, like a pocket watch rewound, she begun pacing once more.

_This can't go on. We have to do something._

In Harry's lap Lyssy raised her head. Her ears drooped slightly, eyes narrowed, and Harry felt a moment of guilt when he realised he'd likely been pushing his worry and fears through the bond they shared.

_**"Sorry, Lyssy."** _

The cat extended a paw to prod gently at his leg before resting her chin down once more. **_"Sad, worried, wrong? What is wrong?"_**

Harry could only stroke her head and attempt to project soothing thoughts. It was by and far his turn; the little Familiar had always done as much for him, if perhaps unwittingly. He stroked her head until she closed her eyes in sleepiness. Yet even the monotony of the stroking could not shake his agitation.

Glancing towards Draco, Harry met his friend's eyes. Like so often of late, it seemed they were already thinking along the same wavelength. Silent communication transferred between them so easily, it made words seem redundant. Pushing himself up from the arm of the chair, Draco moved towards Ginny. With a hand placed upon her shoulder, he stilled her pacing.

Turning towards the room at large, Draco paused for a moment before speaking. "We need to do something."

"Like what? We've already been to McGonagall." Ron had halted in his own pacing, but his eyes were still downcast, as though he spoke to the floor.

"Then maybe we'll go and see her again. Unless you have any other bright ideas?" The remark could have been cutting, but even Draco's voice held a weary strain that dissolved any sharpness.

"We could go to Dumbledore's office. Just to check," Hermione muttered, so quietly she was almost inaudible. "Since McGonagall still doesn't know anything." The Gryffindor girl's lip trembled slightly and Harry unconsciously reached out a hand to pat her arm. She glanced towards him, still the mild surprise that she always did when he touched her, but gave a wobbly smile anyway.

"I might have a suggestion." Pansy's hushed voice drew all eyes as she eased herself from Blaise's lap. She folded her arms across her chest, fixing Draco with a stare. "I could send a message to my father."

"Your father? What would that do?" Ron grunted flatly, as though barely even aware of the words leaving his mouth.

"Pansy, I don't think that would be such a good idea," Blaise murmured as he rose behind her, wrapping an arm around her waist.

She half-turned towards him, shrugging a shoulder. "Perhaps not. But if he knows something…"

"What would he know?" Hermione flickered her gaze between them both, tears glistening in her eyes but not yet fallen. "Why would –"

"My family is neutral for all intents and purposes, Hermione, but that doesn't mean we don't keep our ears open and eyes watchful." Pansy raised her chin, as though expecting reprimand. "The Parkinsons move in the right circles to glean information that might be relevant to the, ah… subject at hand." She glanced towards Ginny, but the other girl simply stared blankly into the fireplace.

"Could you send him an owl?" Draco's voice had take on an orderly, directive fashion; he was always more confident when working towards something, when a plan was developed or being enacted.

Pansy nodded. "Floo message would be faster, but from what I know they're still down across the school."

"If you would then?"

The Slytherin girl nodded once more and made towards the door. Blaise followed in her wake. "I'll come. Might send a message to Mother while I'm at it. She's not exactly as esteemed as the Parkinsons, but she might know something." Pansy didn't reply, accepting his accompaniment, and the pair disappeared through the porthole with a click of the latch.

"Right, now that's underway." Draco turned back to Ron, frowning at the immobile boy. "Ron, I still think that maybe you should check out Dumbledore's office. Just to check."

Ron turned his head slowly. "What? Why me?"

"You'd be able to guess the password, wouldn't you? You said a little while ago that you and Neville had gotten rather good at that."

Snorting, Ron shook his head. "Neville, maybe, yeah. Not me."

Draco ignored the self-deprecation. "Still, you'd be better than anyone else. Do you think you could give it a go? It might tell us something. About where Neville and the headmaster have gotten to."

The words seemed to shake Ron out of his slump. His eyes lost their glassiness as he considered Draco's suggestion, then he nodded slowly. "Yeah. Yeah, I guess. Better than waiting around here, anyway." And without another word he slipped towards and through the portrait hole after Blaise and Pansy.

Harry watched him go with a frown settling on his brow. _Draco, he's… Is he sending them away on purpose?_ It sounded a little silly to him, but even so was definitely plausible. Draco seemed to have reached a decision and was proceeding towards his chosen destination with decisiveness. Harry didn't know exactly what that endpoint was, but as such it came as no surprise when he turned to Hermione and reposed his earlier suggestion.

"Hermione? Are you alright to check in on McGonagall?"

Even in her worried state, Harry could tell that Hermione had reached a similar conclusion as himself. A frown furrowed her own brow and the tears swirling in her eyes couldn't quite mask her quiet consideration. She didn't act upon it, however. Instead, she eased herself slowly to her feet and nodded.

"Yes," she agreed with a sniff. "Maybe McGonagall has heard something. I'll go and check." Pausing for a moment longer to stare meaningfully at Draco, she turned on her heel and quietly slipped from the Gryffindor common room into the labyrinthine castle.

The portrait had barely snapped shut when Draco turned towards Ginny and spun her towards him, hands clasping both shoulders. Harry started worriedly; not that he thought Draco would intentionally hurt her in an attempt to instill some sense into her mindless worrying, but simply that Ginny seemed particularly fragile at present. He worried that a misplaced cuss would dissolve her into either angry shouts or blubbering tears.

Ginny did neither. Turning her head slowly towards Draco, she met his eyes straight on. They still seemed distant however, which was rather disconcerting to behold.

Draco would have none of it. Dropping a hand from her shoulder, he reached down and grasped her wrist firmly, shaking it like a rattle. "Alright, tell me what's going on."

"Draco," Harry began, nudging Lyssy from his lap so he could rise and move towards them. He had no idea what Draco was talking about but it wasn't fair to Ginny, whatever it was.

Draco only spared him half a glance before he shook Ginny's wrist again. "Tell me what's going on, Ginny. This is a Linkage Bracelet, isn't it? It's charmed, right? Tell me what's going on. Why don't you know where Neville is?"

Harry blinked in surprise, hand stretched halfway to stopping Draco's shaking pausing mid-motion. His eyes dropped to the rose-gold bracelet coiled around Ginny's wrist. It was an unremarkable piece, something he'd noticed she'd started wearing from the Christmas holidays. It was pretty, to be sure, in the way that shiny things were pretty, but nothing particularly special. Like all magical items, it seemed to glow slightly. Or perhaps it was more like a gently wafting fragrance, or the emission of a soft warmth. Harry wasn't sure which, but it was something he'd always been aware of it. He had simply put it down to the piece being wizard jewelry and thought nothing more of it.

A Linkage Bracelet? He could make his own deductions simply from the name and what little he knew of it. Neville had one, too, a matching one he'd also been wearing since Christmas, which would mean…

"Ginny?" Draco urged her with his quiet, forceful voice once more.

It seemed to penetrate the walls of her consciousness this time. Ginny caught her bottom lip between her teeth and tossed her head to the side, breaking the line of eye contact. "I don't know."

'What do you mean you don't know?'

"I mean what I said, Draco. I don't know! One minute I could feel Neville's presence through the Link and the next minute, gone!"

Harry felt coldness wash through his gut. The word gone, uttered so harshly, rung like a bell in his ears, throbbed in his temples. "Ginny, do you mean…?"

Ginny shook her head. "I don't know what I mean. I… I don't think he's _dead."_ Her voice wavered, catching on the word, and Harry knew that had he been able to see her eyes she would have been on the verge of tears. "The Link is supposed to hurt, _physically hurt_ , if something as huge as that happens. I didn't feel anything like that."

Draco stared at her penetratingly, his head slightly bowed and Ginny's wrist still clasped in his fingers. A moment more passed, until finally he sighed and released his grasp. He took a step back. "Good. That's good then."

"Good?" Ginny swung her head back to face him. Though over half a foot shorter than him, the strength of her emotion definitely made up for the height discrepancy. "How is this good? I don't know _where he is_ , or if he's _okay_ \- "

"But you know he isn't dead. And with the Linkage Bracelet, you'll be able to pinpoint the last place he could be detected. That's how the Charm works, isn't it?"

For a moment, Harry thought Ginny might actually snap Draco's head off. Quite literally, too, from the clenching and unclenching of her fists. But as his words visibly sunk in, her anger and fear seemed to die to a manageable level. Eyes drifting to the side, she nodded slowly. "Yes, yes, I might be able to…"

"Will you activate it? I think we might be able to sneak out of the school unnoticed if we do it quickly. Harry and I can Apparate, even if it is illegally." Draco cast Harry a brief smile before turning back to Ginny.

Swallowing, the girl dropped her eyes to her bracelet. She tapped it idly, as though considering, then nodded abruptly. 'Alright. But you're taking me with you.'

Draco paused, then nodded agreement. 'I suppose so.'

Harry switched his eyes back and forth between the two of them, uncomprehending. Ginny had fixed her eyes firmly upon the bracelet, as though reading something from its shiny links, and Draco watched her intently. Harry felt like he'd missed an important step somewhere in the process. "Wait a minute, you want to just Apparate from school to an unknown destination? Without any adult support?"

Shrugging, Draco adopted a blasé expression. "Well, not from school. There's Anti-Apparation wards to consider. We'll have to go outside the wards."

Harry stared at him for another long moment, then shook his head to rid it of confusion. "Whatever, I think you're missing the point. And what about Blaise and Pansy? And Hermione, Ron? You're just going to leave without telling them? Shouldn't we wait to let them know?"

"Actually, I deliberately sent them away. There's less danger with less people," Draco offered with a sniff. His eyes flickered back towards Harry again briefly, eyebrow rising. "We don't have to tell them. Not yet, anyway. Unless you wanted to wait yourself, but… I'd thought you'd want to come too?"

"Of course I do, I- Draco, stop avoiding my questions."

Another shrug and Draco reached into an inside pocket of his robe. "I'll leave them a note explaining, thought I think Hermione probably suspected I had something similar in mind. They can't all come with us; it would be impractical."

"It would be more support- "

"But less practical. Come on, Harry, what do you honestly think a bunch of students could do?"

Harry opened his mouth to reply, then paused. He had to admit that was true. None of them would likely to be able to respond appropriately to an emergency situation, regardless of the past adventures Ron and Hermione had been a part of.

Finally, he nodded. "Ye-s, but that just brings up my other question. I don't understand why we couldn't tell a teacher –"

"I've got it," Ginny suddenly announced. There was determination in her voice, and in her eyes when she raised them to meet first Draco's then Harry's. "I know where he is. Was."

"Good. Then we should go. Now." Draco nodded shortly, turning to Harry. "Unless you wanted to discuss it further? You can stay behind if you'd like."

Harry wouldn't. There was no way he would stay behind when Draco left, no matter how much he wanted to 'discuss it further'. Which he did. He honestly did. For though a flicker of relief, gelled in an odd concoction with nervousness and foreboding, settled in his stomach – they might be able to find Neville! – he couldn't think that it was the best course of action. But the expectancy in Draco's eyes, the urgent determination in Ginny's, washed away any argument.

"Fine. Let's go."


	26. And So It Begins

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Thank you, gorgeous commenters and kudos-ers. As always. I feel like I should thank each one of you individually - and I'd like to - but we'd be here all day if I said everything I actually wanted to. Suffice to say: Thanks! Every single one of you make my day, from the familiar faces - yeah, I'm remembering you :) - to the knew ones.  
> Happy New Year, everyone. Enjoy the chapter!

The first thing that Draco was aware upon Apparating of was the smell. It was dusty and dry, as though the room they had landed in had been locked away for too long. The second thing was the cold. The chill was at odds with the staleness of the air, with the faint warmth of the hands in each of his. Blinking, Draco’s eyes adjusted to the darkness around him, blackness retreating into blurry shadows and finally into what appeared to be hulking furniture. It was difficult to discern their exact nature. The room was too dark.

“Where are we?”

Ginny’s voice sounded too loud in the empty room. The hollowness, almost echoing, indicated that the room was likely larger than anticipated. The girl’s hand grasped Draco’s almost painfully tightly, but he didn’t complain. At another time he would have done so – in a heartbeat – but the slight tremors that quivered through her fingers stilled his tongue.

Shaking his head, Draco squinted his eyes, attempting to make out their surroundings. “I don’t know. You’re the one who sent us here.”

“I only gave you the coordinates,” Ginny hissed, squeezing even more tightly. There was more nervousness than anger lacing her tone. “I can’t even see anything.”

“Well, be my guest. I’m not casting magic outside of school grounds,: Draco muttered with only faint regret. Desperate times caused for desperate measures, but he wasn’t about to incite the wrath of the Ministry over the indulgent desire to chase the shadows away. “Try and find a light, or a candle or something.”

He felt more than saw Ginny nod as she deliberately pried her fingers from his. Harry’s he kept a hold on, stepping hesitantly forwards with one hand outstretched. Fingertips reached until they came in contact with a wall and he made his way along it.

“Draco, why don’t I just…”

With his eternal hush, Harry’s voice was nowhere near as resounding as Ginny’s had been moments before. The soft quietness mirrored the smoky red light that shimmered into existence moments later, so slowly that even looking straight at it Draco was only slightly forced to squint. Blinking rapidly to clear the blurriness from his eyes, he glanced around him.

Harry stood directly to his side, one hand raised and a glowing red orb resting in his palm, cradled so closely Draco thought it actually touched his skin. Redness washed over the room, bathing the contents of what appeared to be a storage space of sorts in ruddy light.

It was a relatively large room, at least as large as the Slytherin common room, and seemed larger for the tall ceiling and sparse placement of discarded furniture. What appeared to be couches lined the walls, covered in pale sheets, their sentinel placement broken only by the odd chest or wardrobe. A single window took up the majority of one wall, shrouded in floor length dusty curtains. In the center of the room, a solitary, low-lying table hunkered atop a thick, dark rug, patterns so obscured by dust as to be indecipherable. Ginny stood beside the table turning in a slow circle to survey the room. She spared half a glance for Harry, likely questioning his use of magic after Draco’s words, but she didn’t comment. Worry was evident upon her face; she looked sickly pale in the glow of red light.

“Why red?” Draco murmured with half a mind as he ran his eyes over the shrouded furnishings. There was precious little to comment on; not an ornament or picture frame adorned the walls nor graced the surfaces of the chests.

“It’s not as bright. Won’t hurt your eyes as much,” Harry replied quietly, his own gaze climbing over the cracks in the plaster walls. “Where is this place?”

Shrugging, Draco hesitantly released his hand and moved to the only door into the room. It was nearly hidden by the shadow of an imposing oaken wardrobe that loomed over him as he approached. Jiggling the handle once, he opened it and peered beyond. A dark hallway receded into even deeper blackness, and hastily retreated back into the room a moment later. “I don’t know. The coordinates suggest we’re just north of Cardiff, but I’m not sure. I’m not familiar with this area.”

“Why would Neville and Dumbledore be here? Is this someone’s house? It doesn’t make any sense.” Ginny frowned as she continued in her slow rotations. “If we could use magic, we might be able to see how long it’s been since they were here.”

In unison, Ginny and Draco turned towards Harry. He glanced between the two of them, brow furrowing. “What sort of charm?”

“One that picks up residue? Maybe a Footprints Charm?” Draco rubbed his chin thoughtfully; Charm’s wasn’t exactly his forte.

“I don’t know how to do anything like that. I’m not sure if I could.” Harry dropped his eyes to the floor. “There are footprints on the floor, though.”

“That’s not what I meant –“

“No, Draco, he’s right. It’s so dusty; there are actually footprints on the floorboards.” Similarly shifting her attention to the floor, Ginny took a step away from the table. “On the rug too.”

Crouching, Harry touched a finger to the wooden floor cover. “It’s not gathered much dust yet. They can’t have been long.”

“What do we do?” Ginny turned first to Harry, then to Draco. Her determination was as thick as the air, though she seemed uncertain of how to proceed. “Should we just wait here? Hope they’ll come back?”

“We could try a Tracking Charm,” Draco suggested, stepping to Harry’s side and dropping to a similar crouch. “But since neither you nor I can do magic undetected, it would be up to you again, Harry.”

“I’ve never done a Tracking Charm before either.”

“Do you think you could try?”

Harry frowned at the dusty outline of shoes on the ground. “I don’t know. I’d have to actually think about it and how it works first.”

Draco felt a smile tug at his lips. Despite the gravity of the situation, Harry would always be Harry. “I think that’s your problem; you think too much.” Harry flashed him a smile in return.

Apparently Ginny didn’t see the humor of the situation. Rightly so, Draco considered; they hadn’t really found out anything at all. She huffed impatiently, folding her arms across her chest. “Well? Could you at least try?”

It was rude, really, Draco thought, but Harry hardly seemed to care. Instead, he met Ginny’s eyes with a considering frown, nodded slowly, and turned back towards the footprints. “I can try.” And he pressed his hand onto the floorboards.

Quiet blanketed the already stagnant room. Only their combined soft breaths, made glaringly loud in the shuttered silence, interrupted the stasis. A feather could have been heard dropping to the floor with the sound of thunder.

Which was why, when a pair of bodies crashed onto the table in the center of the room, Draco thought an explosion had taken hold of the building. He, Harry and Ginny started so impressively that they had all stumbled halfway across the room before they registered the source of the intrusion.

“Neville!”

Wavering into steadiness, Ginny launched herself at the two bodies slumped on the shattered remains of the table. She nearly tripped over the side of the rug in her haste. A puff of dust sprung into the air as she fell to her knees beside the new arrivals. She made short work of pushing the splintered fragments from her way. Draco was rather impressed it had collapsed, actually, even under the weight of two grown men; it had looked rather sturdy. He and Harry hastened to her side.

The redness of Harry’s light was anything but generous to the horror of the scene. Neville and Dumbledore looked like a pair of corpses. The younger wizard half-curled in upon himself was a sorry sight; shirt and jeans ripped, a shoes missing, and stained in rusty streaks across every expanse of bared skin. Only the slight rise and fall of his chest, the random twitches of his closed eyelids amidst a half-mask of dirt and grime, indicated he was even alive. Clutched to his chest was an antique candlestick, nearly a foot long and twisted in elaborate spirals.

“Portkey,” Draco muttered, prying it from Neville’s. It was difficult; even in unconsciousness, the other boy had a death grip to rival strangling vine. He glanced at Harry in mutual worry.

Ginny had gathered the limp Neville into her arms, sparing only half a glance for Dumbledore similarly slumped facedown before her. “Neville! Neville, wake up! Please wake up, you’re alright, you’re going to be alright…” She continued a litany of reassurances, patting Neville’s pale cheeks as though in reassurance. Tears had already welled in her, however, and her fingers trembled more violently than before.

Glancing towards Draco and Harry, her eyes became pleading. When she spoke, however, her voice only faintly cracked. “W-what do we do?”

Draco opened his mouth to reply, but for once found no words forthcoming. His eyes locked on Neville, a chill rippling down his spine. _I don’t… what do we… what the bloody hell happened?_

It was probably a good thing, then, that Harry responded so actively. Shuffling to Ginny’s side, hand still aloft with his glowing ball of red light, he peered closely at Neville. Though his face was tight with lines of worry, he spoke with practical efficiency. “We’ve got to see if he’s injured, first, before we try to move him. I think… I think I can heal him. So long as it’s nothing too critical.”

Glancing over his shoulder towards Draco, Harry nodded towards the fallen Headmaster. “Draco, do you think you could make sure Dumbledore’s alright?” He turned back to Neville before Draco could reply.

Swallowing his rising nausea, Draco picked through the fragments of the table towards the elderly wizard. The sounds of Ginny’s rising voice behind him caused him to flinch.

“Oh Merlin, he’s bleeding. Harry, that looks bad. It’s bad, isn’t it? Is it bad? What do we do?”

“Ginny, i-it’s alright. It’s not that bad. I think I can…” Harry trailed off and a sudden warmth behind Draco suggested he was attempting some sort of healing. Draco didn’t turn to confirm it. It didn’t really surprise him as much as it probably should have that he was capable of performing as much.

Dumbledore was nearly a filthy as Neville. His robes were torn into stings of fabric at the hem and half a sleeve appeared burnt off, revealing a bloodstained right arm beneath. Hesitantly grasping his shoulder, Draco heaved to roll the man over. The wizard was a dead weight.

Draco couldn’t suppress the flinch that took hold of him when Dumbledore’s face lolled towards him. It was like a scene from a horror story. The right half of the man’s face was crisped to a black crust. His eyebrow was missing, barely a scratching of charred hairs remaining. The corner of his lip sagged like the mask of a sad clown. His unburned skin was even paler than Neville’s.

_That can’t be good._

Reaching forward slowly, Draco noted detachedly that his fingers trembled. It was only with a herculean force of will that he stilled them enough to fumble onto the side of Dumbledore’s neck. The wrinkled skin felt horribly cold and coarse beneath his fingertips. Beside him, he couldn’t even tell if the old man’s chest shifting with inhalations.

_Come on, come on, please… let there be something._

The faint breathing of Harry, Ginny and Neville behind him seemed almost deafening in Draco’s ears. Ginny’s nearly nonsensical words had faded into a formless murmur. Swallowing, fingers twitching as they withdrew from Dumbledore’s skin, Draco half-glanced over his shoulder.

“Harry… I think…:

Harry glanced towards him from where he had slumped back onto his haunches at Neville’s side. Ginny had taken his place, simply cradling Neville’s prone limp figure like a mother would a child. Draco ignored the display to lock eyes with Harry. The other boy’s looked weary – probably a result of the healing – but the weariness nearly vanished as his eyes widened, his mouth falling open in an inaudible ‘oh no’. Draco’s face must have said it all.

Scrambling to his side, Harry slid his own fingers towards the old wizards neck. His other hand reached blindly for the limp, exposed wrist, locking around wrinkled skin. He stared blankly into nothingness as he paused, frozen; Draco couldn’t even hear him breathe. Slowly, so slowly, Harry turned his eyes towards him.

“He’s…”

“That’s the second time I’m portkeyed with a dead man,” a voice croaked behind them. Draco and Harry turned in unison to see Neville peering at them from Ginny’s arms. Tears glistened in his eyes.

His weren’t the only ones.

* * *

“What should we do?” Harry’s voice was barely a whisper.

It had been but minutes since Neville had awoken, but it felt like hours. Hours of numbness as Draco contemplated the impossible.

_Dumbledore can’t be dead, he can’t be… This is_ Dumbledore. But the evidence was lying startlingly close before him, and try as he might Draco couldn’t draw his eyes away from the dead man.

“I…” He barely cast Harry a flickering glance. He swallowed, trying to rid his mouth of its unending dryness with little successful. “I don’t know. I don’t think… taking him back to school might be…”

Harry had his own eyes fixed upon the old Headmaster. Even from the corner of his eye, Draco thought he looked near about to pass out, and not only from the exhaustion of wandless healing magic. At Draco’s words he nodded quickly in quick agreement. “I think it would just terrify everyone, seeing –“ He cut off abruptly, and wrenched his eyes from the dead man.

Draco slowly did the same, turning instead towards Neville and Ginny. Ginny was murmuring softly, too quietly to be heard. She had regained some of her composure when Neville had awakened, and seemed to be putting on a brave face for him as he stared silently up at her. Draco wasn’t sure if his friend was really even awake; his eyes were open, but he didn’t seem to be responding to Ginny’s words, verbally or otherwise. “Where should we take him, then? Both of them.” He nodded towards Neville as he turned back to Harry.

Gnawing on his lip, Harry glanced between the two of them. “We can’t go to your house –“

“Definitely not.”

“And my uncle’s is out of the question, and not only because it’s in France.” Harry drew in a deep breath. He seemed to be bordering on a nervous breakdown and couldn’t seem to fasten his gaze upon any one spot.

Draco understood the feeling. There was a clenching in his throat, a heavy weight growing near the top of his chest that made him feel like he was about to disgorge his stomach. It was with difficulty that he maintained his own steady breathing. _In through the nose, out through the mouth. In through the nose…_ His mental chanting did little to stifle the flurry of thoughts that had erupted within his head after the numbness finally began to recede.

What exactly were they going to do? Go to the school and hand over the Wizarding world’s most powerful wizard of the Light with an, “um, he died?” How would they possibly explain something like that?

And more importantly, with Dumbledore dead… the repercussions were enormous. It was common knowledge that Dumbledore was about the only thing that stood between the Dark Lord and the collapse of Wizarding Britain. And now he was gone. What sort of hope did they have now? Even with Neville and his Horcrux hunting – of which he and Dumbledore apparently hadn’t yet completed – there was still the impossibly powerful and bloodthirsty madman to deal with. While they hunted. And protected the every witch and wizard, young and old, at his mercy.

_And what about me?_ A soft voice whispered in the back of his mind. Even to himself it sounded frantic. Like a returning itch, all the doubts that had settled upon him since he’d made the Bond with the headmaster reared their ugly heads once more. _What becomes of our agreement? What becomes of his protection? He wasn’t supposed to_ die. _It’s broken now, right? Which means…_

Draco swallowed again, thrusting the thought to the side and clamping down upon it with a firm hand. He couldn’t think about that now, and not only because there were no answers to his questions. Not now, anyway. Even if worst came to worst and Draco was no once more at risk from the Dark Lord, he could hardly curl up in terror and hope for the best. Not only would that amount to nothing but he wasn’t the only one threatened. His friends, his mother…

Glancing up towards Harry, he reached out a hand and wrapped his fingers around his wrist. Harry twisted his hand to grasp Draco’s in return, cool fingers clenching tightly. _And Harry. Especially Harry_. He couldn’t even think about it; that Harry was at risk too – just like everybody else, but it was _Harry_ – made him feel dizzy with fear.

Biting back the flood of bile washing his tongue, Draco glanced once more towards Ginny and Neville. “We could go to the Longbottoms. Or the Weasleys. They might know what to do, or be able to send word to the Order of the Phoenix. Frank Longbottom’s a member, I think, and so is –“

“Oh!” Harry started and snatched his hand from Draco’s. Turning back towards him, Draco frowned as the hand not still holding the glowing red light aloft dove into his pockets. He rifled around for a moment before unearthing a brown paper-wrapped parcel.

“What -?”

“Sirius. We could tell him; he can come and help us. He’s part of the Order, too.” Ignoring Draco’s frown, Harry tugged at the twine holding the paper in place and pulled out a hand mirror a little larger than his palm.

“What is that? What are you doing even carrying it around?”

Harry barely spared him a glance. His expression was still worried but carried an edge of determination now. “Sirius sent it to me this morning. You know how he’s been sending me odd bits and pieces for a couple of weeks now?” Draco nodded. “Well, this is the latest one.”

“What is it?”

“A two-way mirror,” Harry replied, his voice still hushed in the quiet. Rocking back onto his haunches once more, he raised it before himself. “Sirius has its twin, and you can communicate through it.”

“Like Pansy and Hermione’s journals?”

“I guess,” Harry shrugged, before focusing intensely upon the mirror.

Draco was unsure if it was the best idea – who knew what artifacts Black was really sending? – but knew his misgivings to be primarily product of his dislike. It was not entirely rational, this dislike, Draco had to admit, but admitting so didn’t make it any less persistent. So he clamped down on any disputes he felt creeping forth and settled himself to watching Harry gnaw his lip and stare at the mirror.

_Think of the priorities; we need help, and Black is probably in the best position to offer it._ It elicited a wince to even think as much. _Maybe Harry was right. We probably should have brought a teacher or someone along._

“…never done this before. Don’t know if I’m supposed to use magic…?” Harry muttered nearly inaudibly to himself before taking a deep breath and speaking clearly at the mirror. “Sirius Black.”

A rustle behind him alerted Draco to Ginny and Neville’s attentiveness. Glancing behind him, he was met with two pairs of hollow eyes, reflecting the red glow of Harry’s magic. They were a picture of exhaustion and grief, the pair of them, though interest touched both faces as they watched Harry.

For a moment, Draco didn’t think it had worked. He turned back to Harry, was just about to open his mouth to speak, when an unfamiliar voice rung through the room. A pale white light radiated from the face of the mirror.

“Harry? What are you still doing up? Not that I disapprove of midnight wandering particularly, but it’s not really like you.”

Draco could hear the smile in Black’s tone, but Harry offer one in kind. His face was still hardened in lines of worry, and perhaps Black perceived as much for his own tone sharpened. “Are you alright? What’s wrong?”

“Sirius, something’s happened. We need your help.” Harry glanced quickly between his friends, uncertainty seeping into his expression. It was difficult, but Draco managed to dredge up an encouraging smile. The dead man before him seemed to flinch at his attempted warmth.

“What? What’s happened? Are you alright? I’ll come to the school and –“

“No, we’re not at the school, we’re…” Harry switched his gaze towards Ginny. The girl stared back at him blankly before understanding dawned. With a jingle of her wrist to spin her bracelet into better visibility, she relayed the coordinates to Harry in clipped tones. Harry passed them on instantly.

“Coordinates? They teach you that in Apparation these days?” Black’s tone seemed incredulous, until the weight of the directions sunk in. “That’s nowhere near Hogwarts. What are you doing there?”

Harry struggled for words for a moment, opening and closing his mouth. Finally, he stuttered, “W-we’ve had a bit of a incident. Neville, and Dumbledore, they went on a-a mission of sorts and something happened –“

“Are they alright?”

Shaking his head, Harry dropped his chin, eyes falling downcast. Draco could see the strain weighing him down more prominently than it had before. He was unsurprised; it had been more surprising that he’d been so calm before, calm enough to successfully heal Neville. “No, not really. Could you… please, could you –“

“I’m on my way, Harry. Just hang tight, I’ll be there in a heartbeat. Where are you, in a house?”

Harry nodded. “I think so. I don’t know, we just Apparated here. We’re in a room…”

“Alright. Don’t worry, I’m on my way.” The white light morphed and twisted, fizzling like boiled water, before dissolving.

Lowering the mirror, Harry slowly raised his eyes to meet Draco’s. The weariness had returned alongside an additional slump of his shoulders. Still, he seemed fit enough to reassure his friends. “It’s alright. It will all be alright now. Sirius is coming, so…” But his eyes seemed to drift unconsciously to Dumbledore and his words caught. He shrunk in upon himself further.

Crawling across the brittle rug, Draco sidled around the prone form of the old headmaster and curled himself next to Harry. The feeling of cool finger’s snaked around Draco’s waist and like a key fitting into its lock they slipped into each other’s hold. If Draco had known that simple familiarity would have felt so relieving, adding even a modicum of comfort to the scene, he would have done as much far sooner. They settled into huddled stillness, the distant creaks of the old house and the heaving silence the only accompaniment to the scene.

They didn’t have long to wait. Ginny had returned to her hushed muttering and Neville to simply staring up at her, but it was broken within minutes by the slam of a distant door and the clatter of heavy steps over floorboards.

“Harry!”

Starting to their feet, Draco followed Harry to the door. They had eased it open before Sirius Black skidded to a halt before them.

The man was panting faintly from exertion and his short dark hair looked faintly windswept in the light of his _Lumos._ Studying the lines of his face, Draco could liken him to the crazed picture he’d seen in the Daily Prophet – years ago, it had to have been now. Only just, however. There was more life to Black’s face, less of the manic twitching, and the small sigh of relief he released when he locked eyes on Harry was entirely sane.

“Are you alright?”

Harry nodded with a short jerk of his head, but simultaneously linking his hand back through Draco’s arm. The red orb in his free hand flickered into nonexistence, leaving only the golden-white glow of Black’s wand to illuminate the room. It left not an afterglow in its wake.

Peering into the room over Draco’s shoulder, Black squinted at the bowed figure of Ginny, the sprawled form of Neville. At Dumbledore crumpled like a marionette with his strings cut. “What happened?”

Harry didn’t reply, so Draco took his cue. “Neville and Dumbledore. They went on a mission. It didn’t end well, and Dumbledore…” He couldn’t finish, only gestured toward the lifeless form behind him.

Black focused upon Draco for the first time since arriving. It was unlikely he’d even noticed him at Harry’s side when he first skidded to a halt outside the room. His eyes narrowed slightly – now _he recognises me_ – but to his credit he said not a word more.

Slipping past Harry and Draco into the room, he assessed the situation with the efficiency of a professional, checking briefly on Neville, patting Ginny on the back. The only suggestion that he realised Dumbledore’s current state, and felt saddened by it, was a faint tightening of his eyes, a wrinkle settling in his brow as he dropped to one knee beside him. A moment later, Black was up again.

“I’ll take you back to my place. We’ll get this sorted out. I don’t think it would be a good idea to head back to Hogwarts tonight.” He spoke to Draco and Harry – well, probably mostly Harry, but the both of them nodded in reply. “Neville’s not looking in such great shape. I’ll drop him and Ginny back first, then I’ll be back for you two. Alright?”

Another pair of nods was the only reply necessary. Sirius hesitated a moment, as though torn by his own decision, but broke into motion a second later. A hand placed on Ginny’s shoulder, on Neville’s, and there was a crack as they disappeared.

It was incredible how the presence of a steady, practical adult figure could provide so much reassurance. Draco knew he disliked Black, knew that Black almost definitely disliked him, for his name if nothing else, but it was a relief to have the weight of responsibility removed from his own shoulders. He’d never felt so much like a child.

Harry evidently felt as much too, for he released a shaky breath and tension noticeably dribbled from his shoulders. He turned towards Draco, wrapped both arms securely around his waist, and pressed his forehead into Draco’s shoulder. Returning the embrace, Draco lowered his own until it touched Harry’s. It was an oddly intimate gesture, comforting, and they sighed in unison.

Black returned minutes later. He paused at the sight of them holding one another, but didn’t comment. Another moment of hesitation, pausing in the act of placing his hand upon Draco’s shoulder, before the crushing weight of Apparation crumpled upon Draco from all sides. Yet the trip barely long enough to be discomforting and when he regained his vision they were in the middle of a dimly-lit, rather large yet grubby kitchen. Pale wood was stained grey beneath their feet and the walls looked in need of a good paint job. A dining table and surrounding chairs was placed roughly central of the room and a fire cracked in the stove despite the late hour.

“Grimmauld Place,” Black informed quietly, noting the tired, questioning glances of the directed towards him. “It’s just me here at the moment, though sometimes other members of the Order drop in when they need a place to stay.”

Draco couldn’t imagine why. The darkness of the room wasn’t the only reason he was left with a definite sense of discomfort. The very room seemed to breath unwelcome at their very presence. He was faintly relieved when Black ushered them from the room, though the hallway wasn’t much better. The dark wallpaper half peeling from the walls and the dusty cornices gave it a neglected feeling that was almost sad. Even the staircase to the right leading up into the higher floors seemed to moan mournfully in stillness.

“Where are Ginny and Neville,” Harry asked quietly. Not that Harry didn’t always speak quietly, but Draco understood the need for it in this house. Something urged him to drop his own voice, to limit movement to the bare minimum to avoid disruption.

Black gestured overhead. “Upstairs. Bed, and likely asleep by now. Neville was dead on his feet. Ginny, too.” Rubbing a hand over his face, Black sighed heavily. “At least neither needed any healing. I’m bloody useless at that.”

“Harry already did it. As soon as Neville showed up,” Draco murmured.

Black turned towards him, eyebrow raised, then shifted his gaze towards Harry. “That so?” Harry shrugged, then nodded. “Well, I’ll be. You’ll have to tell me about it all. Everything.” Yet even as he said it, Black held up a forestalling hand. “Not tonight, though. You’re both looking exhausted. Save it for tomorrow, when Neville and Ginny are awake too.”

Gesturing towards the stairs, Black continued. “Sleep wherever you’d like. There’s enough rooms for three times as many people, and every bed’s always made just in case.” He dropped his chin, eyes focusing on his hand that slowly curled into a fist. “I’ll go and get Dumbledore. Got to send a couple of ravens, too.”

“We should probably send one to school,” Draco muttered to Harry, who nodded.

Black shook his head. “I’ve got it covered. Go on. Don’t worry about anything else now. Off to bed.”

Draco couldn’t have been happier to follow the orders of a man he disliked, even if said dislike was admittedly slightly less profound than it had been an hour prior. The long night of worry, and the subsequent succession of horror, fear and grief, had finally caught up with him. His eyes felt gritty and his mind was gradually sinking into a pool of mush. Tugging Harry along behind him, he trudged heavily up the stairs in search of a bed.

They fell into the first one they found; Draco actually found he couldn’t care less what it looked like, let alone the smell – faintly musty, and not in a good way. The room was small, as careworn as the rest of the house, and the double bed lumpy. Before closing his eyes Draco spotted at least three cobwebs dotting the ceiling. For once in his life, however, he didn’t really care. He likely would in the morning, when such concerns as personal health and hygiene became somewhat more important, but for now all he cared about was the flat softness of the pillow beneath his head, the weight of the thin blanket tossed over him, and the warmth of Harry pressed to his side.

He fell to sleep within moments of falling upon the mattress.

* * *

As expected, Draco was disgusted upon awakening. The light streaming through the window did no favours to the dankness of the room; if anything, it only made the apparently sentient shadows all the more prominent.

Flicking the yellowing sheets and coarse blankets from himself with distaste, Draco sat up. He swallowed once, twice; his mouth felt gummy, and there was a taste of bitterness on his tongue that left him in mind of his grandmother’s unsweetened tea.

Just as bad, he’d slept in his clothes. Draco could never remember sleeping in his clothes. Never, unless dozing briefly in his armchair at home counted. Which it didn’t. The creases upon his shirt and crinkling his trousers were entirely unacceptable. Though, he admitted dejectedly, there wasn’t exactly much he could do about it. He was still rendered effectively magic-less when away from the school. His seventeenth birthday couldn’t come fast enough.

The distant murmur of voices rising through the floor brought the previous night crashing back down to him. Neville. Dumbledore. The end of the world sitting just upon the horizon. In an instant the bitterness lathering his tongue was accentuated tenfold.

_“Fuck.”_

A soft inhalation caused him to turn to his side. Glancing downwards, Draco watched as Harry fidgeted in his sleep. His glasses were still atop his nose, slightly skewed, and his woven braid was a tangled mess. In sleep, the lines of worry that had seemed a permanent fixture upon his face had smoothed. It was oddly calming to watch, and the tightening in Draco’s chest, though not disappearing entirely, eased slightly. Harry had always been his Distraction, and the very sight of him smothered his rising panic like cotton wool. Without thinking, he reached out his fingers and stroked gently down Harry’s face.

It had been barely two weeks since they had acknowledged the change in their relationship. For that’s what Draco realised it was; simply an acknowledgment. The changes, they were already there; the pair of them had just been denying the reality, or too oblivious to see it. Probably because of such, there had been little change in their actual behavior. Oh, Draco now felt as though he was actually allowed to touch Harry, to wrap him in his arms, as he hadn’t felt entirely comfortable beforehand. And the kissing; that was a wonder that Draco wouldn’t exchange for anything. But otherwise…

Not that Draco minded particularly. There was the urge to touch more – it was there and it was strong – but he found he could be satisfied with what they had now without needing to push things further. Not now, anyway. It was entirely different from what he’d had with Daphne – which was purely physical – or even with Pansy; what had progressed with his friend had been more like a hesitant contract to taste the possibilities, but had inevitably ended with them parting with a fervent agreement never to mention it to one another again.

What Draco had with Harry was different. It felt special, unique in an entirely unprecedented way. He couldn’t quite understand it, but that didn’t seem to matter. He could only hold it, cradle it gently, and watch as it grew and blossomed on its own. Still, he couldn’t help but want to just… touch it sometimes. Even if just to feel its glowing warmth.

Draco’s soft caresses appeared to have tugged at Harry’s sleeping mind. Blinking rapidly, he swum into wakefulness. His own clothes were rumpled as Draco’s and a red lines from the pillow streaked one cheek.. Fumbling to straighten his glasses, he blinked fuzzily and glanced towards Draco. “Hmm?”

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to wake you.”

Harry yawned, shaking his head as he sat up. “’S alright.” He brushed his fringe from his face as he cast a quick glance around the room. “Where -?”

“Grimmauld Place. Black’s house. Remember? Last night…”

Nodding, Harry continued his scan of the room. His eyes caught on the half-curtained window for a moment, glasses reflecting the feeble light that managed to penetrate the creep inside. “I remember. I…” He swallowed, face clouding and crumpling for a moment as he struggled to reassert control of his expressions. It was a good distraction just watching him. A Distraction from Draco’s own looming thoughts. “I meant, where’s Neville and Ginny?”

Draco shrugged. “I don’t know. I only just woke up too. Probably in the next room, I’d imagine.” With a heave of weary muscles he rose from the bed to accompanying squeal of springs. Harry padded to the floor beside him a moment later. Together, they left the musty room in search of their friends.

They didn’t have to look far. Ginny and Neville were indeed right next door, in a room about as splendorous as the one in which Draco and Harry had spent the night. Ginny looked to have been awake for some time already, and had wedged herself into a threadbare armchair to the side of the bed. Her legs tucked beneath her, she spoke in quiet, soothing tones to Neville, who replied with equal quietness from the bed. Both glanced towards them as Draco pushed the door open.

“Hey.” Ginny attempted a smile, but it looked more a grimace.

“Morning,” Draco replied, stepping inside to make room for Harry to follow.

“Afternoon, actually.” Ginny nodded her head towards the window, the curtains half drawn. Following her gaze, Draco could see the sun resting on the horizon. Apparently they’d just about slept the day away.

“How are you feeling?” Harry stepped to Neville’s bedside, leaning down slightly to peer at his friend.

Neville gave a mirthless chuckle in reply. “Honestly? Like shit.” He sighed deeply, levering himself into sitting. “But physically, I’m fine. I have you to thank for that, Harry.” The smile Neville offered was about as successful as Ginny’s attempt.

“What’s going on? Downstairs, I mean,” Draco asked, looking to Ginny for answers.

The girl shrugged in reply. “I don’t know. Whoever it is, they’ve been going at it for a while. Couple of hours, I’d say.” She shrugged again, glancing towards Neville. “I haven’t been down to see.”

Draco leant out of the door behind him. The murmur of voices rose and fell like an undulating wave; he could hear more than one voice hissing angrily. “I think we should we go down. Black said last night that he’d want to talk to us about what happened.” He raised an eyebrow questioningly, to Neville primarily. The other boy’s reluctance to participate could put a kink in the explanation somewhat.

Neville nodded obligingly, however, and after a brief scuffle of slipping shoes onto feet the four of them made their way downstairs.

Following the voices to the kitchen, Draco peered through the doorway. Harry, Neville and Ginny paused behind him. It was a hubbub of activity inside, with about half a dozen occupants in various degrees of seating and standing. Draco recognised Black immediately; he could hardly miss the man standing at the head of the table and growling loudly to – Moody? Yes, it was definitely him. One could hardly mistake the man for someone else, wooden leg and magical eye being the most prominent of the distinguishing features.

Shifting his gaze around the room, Draco noted Professor Lupin as another attendant, as well as Ron’s father and another red-headed man who could only be his son. Dedalus Diggle was also seated at the far corner of the room, and a tall, dark man who Draco didn’t recognise standing with his arms folded before the fire.

“… have to _make_ him listen, Moody,” Black was saying, planting his fists upon the table. “This is serious; he’ll dig his heels in, but at least he’s more reasonable than Fudge. He’ll have to listen. Kingsley?”

Eyes shifted towards the tall man by the stove, who bowed his head thoughtfully. “True, the Minister is more obliging than his predecessor. If we approach him as a united front, as the Order reborn, we might –“

“And tell him what?” Moody growled, stomping his wooden leg upon the floor. “If word got out that Dumbledore’s dead, Voldemort won’t hesitate to strike hard and fast.” Draco couldn’t quite help flinching at the name.

“So we just keep it under wraps?” Black visibly seethed, leaning towards his opponent with a snarl twisting his face. The expression was enough like his wanted poster for Draco to feel a flicker of unease upon beholding it. “How long do you think that will last, Moody? Why not just act now, act fast, and be the one’s to get in first?”

Moody scowled in reply. “You honestly think that will work, Sirius? This is Voldemort we’re talking about. This isn’t your average workaday madman. At present, he is the most powerful wizard in Britain. What do we have to throw against him?”

The hushed voice of Diggle spoke up in reply. “But leaving it as it is, Moody? That will give You-Know-Who the opportunity to set the time, the place. We’d be left with the downhill starting point.”

“I have to agree with Alastor,” Lupin cut in. His voice, usually so calm as Draco recalled from his teaching days, had an edge to it that spoke of deep concern. “The longer this is kept quiet, the more time we have to plan, to prepare. If we just wait –“

“I don’t think that will do much good, Professor Lupin.”

All eyes turned towards the hallway at Neville’s words, Draco’s included. The Gryffindor boy had taken on a ghastly pallor, though Draco wasn’t entirely sure that didn’t have to do with the simple act of walking. He hadn’t looked entirely recovered even when abed. Despite this, Neville stepped determinedly into the room. His gaze swept the members of the Order gathered, seeming to meet everyone’s in turn.

“Neville.” Weasley spoke with a small smile of welcome, discoloured only by his own worry, with an obvious strain. “Are you alright?”

Lupin’s overrode any reply. “What do you mean, Neville?” His tone, still tinged with concern, was quiet. “What do you know?”

“Is it about what happened last night?” Black added. A frown furrowed the man’s brow so deeply it looked an almost permanent fixture.

Neville nodded slowly. “Last night, I… we, me and Dumbledore –“ He paused once more, scanning the room as though uncertain.

“Speak up, boy,” Moody grumbled. “Everyone in this room can be trusted.”

Nodding acceptingly, Neville continued, taking a deep breath. “You know about the Horcruxes, right?” A visible wince rippled through the room. No one spoke, but an answer was unnecessary. “You also probably know that Professor Dumbledore and me, we’ve been searching for them.

“Last night, Dumbledore asked me to come along with him. Said he’d found another one and that he could use a hand. Of course I agreed; it’s not the first time, not even the second time he’s asked me. I sort of know what to expect now. At least, more than most people, I guess.”

“He asked you to assist him?” Weasley’s face flushed slightly red. “Why would he ask you?” A glance around the room and Weasley addressed the Order members at large. “He asked a boy? Neville’s only a boy, and he asked him for assistance?”

Neville shrugged, speaking over any reply the other occupants of the room might have. “It doesn’t matter. What matters was that we found it. He was right, just like he’s been right every time so far.”

A gasp hissed through the room, but even glancing over his shoulder Draco couldn’t pinpoint it. “What was it?” Moody grunted, his eyes narrowing on Neville.

Neville swallowed under the scrutiny. “The snake. Voldemort’s snake. He put the Horcrux in his own familiar.”

“Of course he did,” Black muttered, spitting on the floor in disgust. “Of course he’d sacrifice his own bonded companion for –“

“Enough, Sirius.” Moody, clearly in charge despite the early argument, hushed the younger wizard into silence. “You used the sword, Longbottom? The Sword of Gryffindor?”

It wasn’t news to Draco, the use of Godric Gryffindor’s sword to destroy the Horcruxes. Neville had informed him and his friends of as much weeks ago. He and Dumbledore had reportedly been using it to destroy every Horcrux so far. Still, it was surprising to understand that it seemed apparently common knowledge amongst the Order members.

Neville nodded again. “Yeah, we… yeah. It was tough. There was a fight, but Dumbledore expected that. The snake was guarded, of course, so we had to face some Death Eaters.” Closing his eyes for a moment, Neville shuddered.

Moody was merciless, however. He gave Neville but a moment to recover from what was obviously the memory of a traumatic experience. “What happened? Something went wrong; what was it?”

“Something called Voldemort.”

That simple statement served to silence the entire kitchen. A soundless groan of dread caught in Draco’s throat. _The Dark Lord and Death Eaters? Maybe with one or the other  Dumbledore could... but with both…_

Neville’s voice cracked slightly as he continued. “We killed the snake, but getting away was the hard part. There were wards in the area – anti-Apparation and anti-portkey. We had to portkey within the first wards and sneak past the rest. We, um…” He cleared his throat. “Voldemort showed up before we could make it outside the first set of wards. We were close but…” He trailed off again.

The rest hardly needed saying. Dumbledore’s death was explanation enough. Faces caved dejectedly as they sunk into thought. Black slid into his chair and even the stoic figure of the unfamiliar Kingsley seemed to slump on his feet.

Moody was the first to speak. “So he knows. Voldemort now knows that we’re hunting the Horcruxes.”

Neville nodded, his eyes downcast. From a sideways glance, Draco wondered if the other boy was on the verge of tears. “And worse than that. He’s got the Sword.”

Draco heard multiple groans erupt around the room this time. Diggle dropped his head to his hands and Lupin wasn’t the only one to squeeze his eyes tightly shut as though physically pained.

It was the youngest Weasley who finally spoke up. “Is there no chance of retrieving it, Neville?” He sounded nearly desperate. It was wholly disheartening to see such an apparently confident and sturdy young man almost pleading for an out.

Neville paused for only a moment before shaking his head. “Just before I managed to portkeyed out of there, I saw the Death Eaters with it. Voldemort had seen it already, too. And I don’t think there’s a chance of him not knowing what it is.”

Draco felt himself nearly fold under the continually building burden of impossibilities. _How much more can we have piled up against us before we just get crushed under the weight?_ He was sure he wasn’t the only one to think as much.

Leaning forwards, both eyes fixed upon the table before him, Moody grumbled into the buzzing silence. “We’ll have to do something, then.” He sounded like he was talking to himself, though a moment later he turned to Kingsley and barked an order. “You know what to do.”

The dark man nodded sagely, and in a whip-crack of Apparation disappeared from the kitchen. Moody didn’t even watch wait for the echo to dissipate before turning towards Lupin. “Remus, I can only ask, but…”

Lupin’s face gradually drained of colour, fading to a sickly grey. He seemed to be choking on his tongue for a moment, but quickly nodded in reply. “I understand. I’ll try, Alastor.” He disappeared moments later.

“Arthur, Bill. If you would, make your way over to Hogwarts. If what Neville says is true, then Voldemort will have a target painted on his back. Which means Hogwarts is at high risk.”

Weasley and Weasley Junior nodded militaristically, jaws tightening with identical firmness, and edged between Draco and Harry from the room. When the footsteps of their departure had disappeared, Alastor finally turned towards Black.

“I want you to stay here.”

Predictably, Black growled. “I’m not just going to –“

“Look after the kids, Sirius. And while you’re at it, do the rounds. We need all hands on wands at this point.” Though his back was to him, Draco could almost feel the penetrating stare Moody sent Black’s way. It effectively cowed the wizard, or at least convinced him of the importance of his own role enough than he slumped back into his seat. Dark eyes glanced towards Draco and his friends still in the doorway and he nodded.

Moody gave a nod in reply. “Alright. I’ll get in touch with those we can’t message. Mundungus will be out of range, and Elphias never answers his Floo calls.” Hefting himself to his feet, Moody turned to fix one last pointed stare at his ex-students – well, at Neville primarily – before he too disappeared in a crack.

The kitchen felt ominously large and empty in the abrupt absence of bodies. Hollow, even. Black, eyes fixed thoughtfully upon the table, a frown still marring his forehead, silently scrubbed at the stubble on his chin for a moment before wading back to the present.

“Alright, I’ve got some calls to make. You lot are probably hungry, yeah?” A series of hesitant nods indicated their tentative agreement, which Black replied to with a wan smile. “Help yourselves to anything that you can find that’s edible. You could try ordering Kreacher to rustle you up something, but he’s rarely obliging.”

_Kreacher?_ Draco was on the verge of asking, but Black didn’t appear in the mood for answering questions. He paused in his own departure from the room only to pat Neville on the shoulder and whisper something that sounded like, “call your Dad again” in his ear. He offered a slightly longer pat to Harry, before he disappeared into the hallway.

The four exchanged glances. They’d barely been out of bed for more than ten minutes and already the world seemed to have turned itself upside down in a flurry. Poor Neville looked like he would be more suited to heading back to bed; he visibly swayed upon his feet. One hand pressed firmly against his temple as though trying to rid himself of a headache.

Evidently Draco wasn’t the only one to have noticed his friend’s state. Ginny and Harry flowed into action as though choreographed, Ginny dragging Neville towards the table while Harry skirted the room towards the distant cupboards. Draco followed in Ginny and Neville’s wake to the sound of Harry opening and closing cupboards.

“Looks like… I could make omelets, I suppose.” Harry glanced over his shoulder, seeking confirmation. Ginny nodded, smiling gratefully, while Neville only propped his elbows on the table, dropping his head into his hands.

“You can cook?” Surprised, Draco paused in the act of seating himself distastefully into a worn chair to raise an eyebrow at Harry.

“Mmm. I’ve only been doing it for about sixteen years, though, so you’ll have to excuse my amateur skills.” He smiled briefly over his shoulder, a pan held aloft in one hand. Draco huffed a heavy laugh. The simple jibe was enough to brighten the kitchen measurably, even shadowed as it was by worry and the scum in every crevice.

“Right. I guess I should have known that.”

The smells of melted cheese and crisping egg soon filled the kitchen and soon each were picking hungrily at their breakfast. Or dinner, Draco supposed. It was likely already heading towards dark.

Neville kept one hand to his temple the whole time. The loss of conversation seemed to be taking a toll on him, most likely the absence of adequate distraction. The line between his eyebrows became more pronounced throughout the meal.

“I think you should go back to bed,” Ginny urged, placing her knife and fork neatly in the middle of her plate. She regarded the half-eaten omelet before Neville with a critical eye. Draco wouldn’t have been surprised had she offered to feed him herself. Or shove it forcibly down his throat.

But Neville only shook his head. “It’s not that, it’s…” He heaved a sigh of annoyance and glanced around the room. The light in his eyes was almost accusatory. “Something isn’t right. There’s something...”

Rising to his feet, Neville nearly stumbled as his foot caught on his chair. Ginny steadied him with a hand to his arm, frowning worriedly. “Neville, I think you should sit –“

“One minute,” Neville growled. Draco blinked in surprise; he’d never seen his friend short with Ginny before. Ginny was more likely to bite his head off than bow her own in accordance.

For once, though, Ginny subverted expectations. Or perhaps she was simply as surprised as Draco. As one, Draco, Harry and Ginny watched Neville pace towards the far end of the room, hand pressed to his head and scowling fiercely at an unknown presence. He paused for a moment, half turned towards the stove, and took the remaining steps forwards. Draco found himself rising to his feet beside Harry in concern as Neville sunk to his knees beside the stove.

“Neville, what are you…?”

Neville didn’t even turn. As Draco, Harry and Ginny hesitantly stepped up behind him, Draco was startled to find only Neville’s had clambered into a cupboard beside the stove so far that only his lower half still protruded into the room. The enclosed space was covered only by a holey curtain-like blanket.

“Neville?” Harry asked quietly. He slipped to his knees beside him and slowly reached out a hand, tapping his friend on the shoulder. “Neville, what are you doing?”

In reply, Neville tugged himself from the storage space with a loud gasp. What appeared to be sleeping quarters was revealed as he sat back on his heels. Draco recognised it as a nest of a house elf; he’d seen enough in his time to recognise the piled mound of scrap material and old tea towels for what it was.

His eyes were drawn almost instantly, however, to the object clasped in Neville’s hands. The tinkling sound of metal on metal rung through the kitchen as the links of what appeared to be a golden chain slipped through Neville’s fingers. A locket hung suspended from the bottom of the chain. Tiny green gemstones patterned a squiggle – no, an S – into the golden surface.

“Where did a house elf get something like that”’ Draco wondered aloud. Harry and Ginny turned towards him questioningly, but it was Neville who replied.

“It’s a Horcrux.”

It was a simple statement that effectively cut off further comment. Draco felt his own eyes widen in tandem with Harry’s and Ginny’s. The now familiar wash of bile flooded his mouth and he had to swallow convulsively to prevent humiliating himself and dirtying the already filthy floor. “What? How do you know?”

Neville shook his head, eyes fixed on the locket as he ran a finger over its surface. “I just know. It’s like I can feel it.”

“Feel it?” Ginny voice sounded faintly horrified at the prospect.

Nodding, Neville didn’t even spare her a glance. Draco almost felt sorry for the ready dismissal of the girl. “Like how I felt the diadem in the Room of Requirement. And Hufflepuff’s cup in Gringotts. It’s like… it rings, like a bell. Almost like it’s calling to me.”

Draco didn’t particularly like the sound of that. A sense of foreboding settled in his gut and he glanced uneasily at Harry.

Harry pursed his lips thoughtfully, a frown impressing upon his forehead as he stared at Neville worriedly. “We should tell someone. Sirius, maybe he should know; he’d know what we should do with it.”

Neville didn’t appear to be listening. “Of course that would be how it works. Find the last Horcrux just as we lose the bloody Sword. Fucking fantastic.”

The locket reflected the gloomy light illuminating the room from the stove, from the candles placed around the room, and painted ugly shadows on the walls. It was likely Draco’s imagination, but it almost seemed like it was taunting them with each glitter of its green gemstones, laughing in the face of Neville’s words.

Before any of them could comment further, however, there was the sound of running footsteps at the door. Draco turned swiftly to the door, feeling Harry, Neville and Ginny follow his example, just in time for to see Weasley Junior skid through the doorway.

The man was panting, his chest rising and falling in great heaves, and he blinked through his fringe at the four of them. “Ginny, where’s Sirius?”

Ginny stuttered for a moment, tripping over her tongue. “He-he said he was going to call them. To send some Floo calls. To the rest of the Order.” She shrugged helplessly, gesturing back into the hallway.

Weasley Junior didn’t wait for further explanation. Launching himself from the room with a thrust to the doorframe, his pounding feet left a thudding din with his departure. Frozen only for a moment, Ginny quickly dashed after him. Draco found himself drawn like a dog on a lead after her.

“Bill?! What is it? What happened?”

“He’s there,” came a distant reply. “He’s at Hogwarts.”

“Who?” Ginny called, though the mask of terror she turned towards her friends said she knew perfectly well.

“You _know_ who.”

Draco felt his heart plummet to his toes. With a wash of dizziness he felt kitchen brightened yet impossibly darkened. The roof suddenly seemed to want to spin beneath his feet.

_And here I thought this day couldn’t get any worse._


	27. Attack To Destroy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: A looooong chapter (and I hope it's not dull as a result). If you have a chance, please take a moment to leave a comment. I'd love to hear your thoughts.

If he hadn’t believed Bill’s words before, the firelight polluting the sky in a rich yellow above Hogwarts upon their arrival was indication to Harry enough that something was wrong. As they cracked into appearance on the outskirts of the castle’s wards, there was a momentary pause in movement. A ripple of uncertainty seemed to run through them all, at the sight of the light bathing the darkened sky through the trees overhead, at the distant calls of words indiscernible.

Harry flinched at the suddenness of Sirius’ movement when he turned sharply towards Bill. A scowl painted his face. The pair locked eyes momentarily and Bill only shook his head, replying to an unspoken question. Harry wondered briefly what it was.

“Come on, then,” Sirius growled, and without a glance towards the rest of them started up a quick trot through the woods following a path of his own making. Reaching out his hand automatically, Harry locked his fingers in Draco’s before following Ginny and Neville in Sirius’ footsteps. Soft footfalls thumped behind them as Bill took up the rear. A glance over his shoulder showed Harry the young man’s face set into grim lines, shadowed hollowly in the contrasting light and darkness of shrouding night and distant fire.

Not a one of them made a sound other than the faint pants of exertion, the crunch of branches underfoot. It didn’t seem appropriate in the face of the distant cries growing louder and louder. Harry didn’t think he could have spoken anyway. A lump had settled in the base of his throat, tightening painfully at each scream that erupted from the darkness.

They had attacked? Voldemort had attacked, with his followers? Death Eaters, Sirius had called them, and reportedly the man had a vast contingent at hand. It was almost incomprehensible, impossible to believe, a hypothetical possibility not yet realised. And yet, as the thick woods gradually cleared to reveal the castle, it could hardly be denied. Their line stuttered to a momentary halt as the castle came fully into view.

Someone had lit a roaring fire in a ring around the castle grounds. Flames dances ten feet into the air, spitting sparks aggressively towards the sky. The wavering flickers nearly blocked out the sight of darkly cloaked shadows swarming over the grounds, though brief flares of magic swinging wands briefly illuminated their shrouded forms in a myriad of vibrant colours. Spells directed towards the sturdy castle walls grumbled ominously upon impact, loosing distant clouds of thick dust from the walls with each hit. With every impact an upwelling of fearful cries spilled through the stonewalls of the castle. It was almost as thought the school wailed in its own fear rather than simply echoing the cries of its occupants.

Yet even so, the castle wasn’t entirely undefended. Even from where he stood Harry could make out a number of distant figures lining the walls, facing the black-cloaked intruders and deflecting nearly as many spells as hit from the black-cloaked attackers dancing like vengeful hornets across the grounds.

Sirius cursed under his breath. “How many are there?”

Bill shook his head. “I don’t know. There were at least two dozen by the time I left, but it looks like more now.” His face was pale and twisted in worry in the orange-yellow glow f the fire. “Dad left as soon as we saw them to tell Mad-Eye. Hopefully he’ll be bringing reinforcements.”

“They’re holding them off… a little bit,” Neville murmured. Harry glanced towards him; the other boy had taken hesitant steps towards the castle, a frown of determination crinkling his brow. The firelight flickered off the locket hanging around his neck. For a moment, Harry was concerned he would throw himself at the flames.

Sirius evidently felt the same. He clasped a hand on Neville’s shoulder, half-turning the boy and meeting his eyes intently. “Neville, I still think you should stay behind.”

With a violent shake of his head, Neville tugged himself from Sirius’ grasp. “Like hell, Sirius. Not going to happen.”

“But it’s you Voldemort wants –“

“And so what if it is?” Neville turned his frown back towards the castle. His face glowed, and not just from the reflection of the flames. “I’m not going to sit back and just let him overrun Hogwarts. My friends are in there!”

Sirius paused for only a minute. Troubles conflicted in a war across his face. Harry couldn’t blame him. As the current leader of their small group, he was basically responsible for the welfare of his charges. It had only been Neville’s adamant demands and, in failing that, the declaration that he’d follow behind if Sirius even considered leaving them at Grimmauld Place, that had dissuaded Harry’s godfather from doing just that.

He fixed his jaw a moment later, however, and gave a curt nod. “Alright, then. Just don’t get yourself killed.” Neville smiled grimly, but only nodded in reply. Sirius continued. “We need to get inside, preferably without getting burnt. I’m positive that’s not normal fire, so I doubt any Anti-Flammable Charms will work. Bill? Suggestions?”

Rubbing a hand over his chin, eyes still staring widely at the figures darting about on the other side of the flames, Bill clicked his tongue. “The lake. If we wade into the shallows a little, then –“

“Good enough for me,” Sirius murmured, and without further comment started off at a jog once more party towards the Black Lake. Harry felt himself tugged along behind Draco as their party started moving once more. Sirius made certain to keep them on the outskirts of the forest, effectively obscuring them from view even with the glaring spotlight of the fire.

The booming yells of cast spell and cries of fear gradually faded as they drew away from the fight, even if the crackle of flames followed alongside them like a persistent hound. By the time they’d reached and begun skirting Hagrid’s hut, the only other sound was their own heavy breathing and the brittle crunch of grass beneath their footsteps once more. Only the occasional, exceptionally loud wail echoed across the distance.

As the lake came into view, a low hissing interrupted their progress. Sirius nearly stumbled to a halt at the sight of Squirt’s three heads peering curiously through the dark over the side of its trough, frills flaring. The dim illumination from Hagrid’s hut, coupled with the barrier of fire standing a good twenty feet beyond it, made the hydra’s eye’s glisten, reflecting off a couple of limp salmon lying discarded at the base of his enclosure. An overturned barrel left Harry with the impression Hagrid had been mid-feed when he had fled in aid of the castle.

Sirius only paused momentarily to shake his head in exasperation. “Trust Hagrid to get himself a hydra.”

“Where did he even get one?” Bill wondered through faint pants, shaking his own head. “Honestly…”

Harry exchanged a wavering smile with Ginny that bordered on the hysterical; Squirt’s appearance was a familiar feature in the horrific novelty they had just stumbled from. Neither said a word as Sirius urged them onwards once more, a wave of his hand encouraging them all to pick up their pace once more. Ginny did pause, however, to scoop up a stray fish and lob it at the hydra as they departed.

If the Black Lake was cold during daylight summer hours under the cover of evening in what barely constituted spring it was positively freezing. Even the Death Eater’s fire crackling on the shoreline – it didn’t extend into the water, thankfully, though Harry wouldn’t have been surprised it if had – didn’t assist in taking the edge off. It didn’t help that only when they were knee deep in water did Bill think to suggest a Waterproofing Charm. The damage was already done.

Not that it slowed Sirius when they gained the inside of the fire wall. Shaking like a dog, the wizard beckoned his string of followers once more and continued at a trot up the hill towards the castle. From this aspect, with the fire at their backs, Hogwarts was a hulking giant of shadow. Only star-like pinpoints of light from high windows dotted the darkness.  
“‘Hidden entrance,” Sirius murmured, jogging confidently towards the castle walls. “If I remember it right, it was definitely around here on the map.”

He was nearly swallowed by the shadows at the foot of the castle. Harry squinted to peer into the darkness, watching as Sirius set to tapping the smoothed stone and brushing through tall grass to edge around the exterior. Harry couldn’t see what it was he was searching for; there seemed to be no rhyme or reason to his random taps on weatherworn stone, reaching first high then low, then taking a scuttle of steps to the side and repeating at varying heights. Instead, he wrapped his arms around himself and fought to prevent his teeth from chattering. He wore little more than a jumper and jeans that seemed suddenly inadequate for spring weather.

It was with a sigh of relief, then, when Sirius found what he had been searching for and, with an exclamation of triumph, beckoned them all towards him. They quickly flooded into a round tunnel that had sprung, quite literally, Harry suspected, from nowhere. Their footsteps echoed hollowly off man-made walls, resounding with a loudness that caused Harry to cringe, certain the Death Eaters wouldn’t miss their passing.

The inside of the castle was a ghost town. Ghoulish echoes of distant cries added to the sound of their footfalls, only intensifying the impression. Harry didn’t recognise the area of the castle they emerged from – through a mirror, as it were – but that wasn’t particularly surprising. Even after spending months within the castle walls he still found himself stumbling upon more unfamiliar corridors than he could count.

Taking the lead once more, beckoning to his charges with that same urgency that now drew a snort from Draco, Sirius set a steady jogging pace through the network of hallways towards the distant sounds of resounding voices. A mask of determination had slipped over his usual worn expression; it added a cold cast to his features that Harry hadn’t seen before. Dread settled on the nervousness that already swirled in his gut.

Trudging up stairwells – they’d reached the ground floor, though Harry hadn’t even realised they’d been wandering through the dungeon’s labyrinth – Bill finally broke the nervous silence. “Sirius, I’ve got to find Dad. He should be back by now, surely. And the professors; I’ve got to got and help.”

Sirius paused for only a moment. He spared Bill a glance, nodding curtly. “Do what you have to, Bill. I’ll drop the kids off with the rest of them.”

“I’m coming with you, Bill,” Ginny panted between steps.

“No, Gin, stay with Sirius, I’ll –“

“I’m coming too,” Neville overrode him. The frown furrowing his brow brooked no argument.

“No, you won’t. Either of you.” Sirius didn’t even turn as he barked at the pair of them. “You’ll just as likely get yourselves killed or trip up an Order member if you try anything.”

Neville spat indignantly. “We will not! We can help –“

“The best help you could offer be would be staying away from Voldemort. Not to mention getting rid of that locket.”

Neville had no argument to that. From behind him, Harry saw his hand raise to the chain looped around his neck. They’d only briefly had the chance to explain to Sirius and Bill what it was – there’d been no time for surprise, even. Not with the urgency of the news Bill brought.

“I’d guess they’d probably be at the Great Hall,” the elder Weasley suggested. Patting Ginny’s shoulder briefly, giving her a quick, awkward kiss to the temple mid-stride, he raised a hand of farewell. “Take care, you lot. Don’t do anything stupid.”

Draco snorted once more at Harry’s side, but otherwise no one objected to the caution. A chorus of ‘good lucks’ followed him, though Harry noticed that each face immediately slipped into an expression of mounting worry as he disappeared around the corner.

That was one of their number down already.

As it turned out, it looked to be every student of Hogwarts in the Great Hall. Slowing to a panting halt at the doors, Sirius eased open the half-closed doors and led them into the midst of buzzing, frantic voices, milling youths and wide-eyed stares. The house tables had been pushed to the sides of the room, benches rearranged in patterns that Harry could discern no order from. First glance suggested there to be an absence of teachers entirely, which could only be expected. Every teacher was most likely protecting the castle. It would surely take a communal, focused effort to face so many foes. Harry was surprised they’d lasted as long as they had.

But the voice of Madam Pomfrey pierced through the crowd like a dart. Harry couldn’t make out her words, but she appeared to have taken the prefects under her guidance and directed them towards taming the masses. It was only half working; the first years especially looked to be on the verge of mental breakdown. Most were very visibly trembling. Harry could hardly say he blamed them.

Casting a quick glance around the room, Sirius turned towards Harry and his friends still following closely on his tail. They were a bubble of stillness in the hubbub, like a stone wedged in the seabed amidst a tumultuous current. He fixed each of them with a meaningful stare; the meaning was lost to Harry, but whatever Sirius himself got out of it seemed to reassure him.

“Alright. I’m going after Bill. He’s right, every able wand that can should offer a hand.”

“Then why can’t we,” Neville growled, crossing his arms across his chest.

“Because,” Sirius heaved a frustrated sigh, “you’re hardly trained for warfare. Don’t try telling me you are.”

“I can fight –“

“One on one, sure. Duelling, I’ve no doubt. But this is a battle, Neville. It’s entirely different. It takes as much luck as skill in such circumstances.”

Ginny raised her chin, the determination still firmly affixed on her face. “If it’s just as much luck, then we could be of help.”

Sirius shook his head. “No. You haven’t practiced you’re luck enough.”

“That doesn’t really make sense,” Harry murmured.

Sirius gave him a tight smile. He reached out a hand and clasped him on the shoulder. Such touches was only mildly discomforting nowadays, and in comparison to everything else going on Harry could easily overlook it. “Maybe not to you. But regardless, you’re not leaving this room.”

“But –“

“No, Neville. If you want to be of help, knuckle down and try to think of a way to destroy that Horcrux without the Sword. You’re smart kids, you’ll think of something.”

Harry felt a moment of exasperation at the condescending tone, a feeling expressed in varying degrees by his friends from their raised eyebrows and rolled eyes. Sirius only smile tightly once more in reply. “Right. Look sharp. No fighting, but that doesn’t mean you shouldn’t defend yourselves if it comes to it. Wands at the ready.”

As one, Ginny, Neville and Draco obliged. When Sirius frowned questioningly at Harry, he shrugged one shoulder. “I don’t have it with me.”

Starting as though he’d been slapped, jerked backwards a step. His smile slipped into a baring of teeth that caused Harry to flinch. With a hard grasp, Sirius caught Harry’s free shoulder in a tight squeeze. “Why the hell not? What can you do without your wand?!”

Draco swooped in barely a moment later. In a motion to fast Harry couldn’t quite determine its sequence, he smacked Sirius’ fingers from their claw-like grasp and shunted him backwards. Sirius turned his bared teeth – now more of a snarl – onto Draco, who seemed entirely unfazed. “Because, Black,” his voice was cold. “Harry practices wandless magic. Surely you knew that by now.”

It was silly. Ridiculous, really. The murmurs of hurried conversation, the terrified whimpers, still rung around them. Explosions still slammed into the walls of the castle, seeming to shake the room like a quake. But Draco and Sirius apparently disregarded as much for an abrupt face-off.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Sirius growled. He turned towards Harry. “You use wandless magic? Only wandless magic?” Harry gave a subdued shrug, nodding slowly. He felt like he was being interrogated. “And well? What about defensive spells?”

Draco smiled a twisted smirk at that. It didn’t seem directed at Harry, more at the situation, but Harry still cringed in shame. “No, not defensive spells, but otherwise –“

“Then where the bloody hell is it?”

“He can’t do them with his wand, either.”

“I’m not talking to you, Malfoy,’ Sirius growled. Indeed, he wasn’t even looking at Draco anymore. “Where’s your wand, Harry?”

Harry struggled to speak; he wasn’t even sure if his voice would be heard over the chorus of those around him. “I-it’s in Feather-, it’s in my room.”

Groaning, Sirius ran a hand through his hair, his own wand tugging through the short locks. ‘This won’t work. You’re going to have to go and get it.”

“I can’t really use it –“

‘It doesn’t matter! it’s better than nothing, right?”

The stare he fixed Harry with stilled any further argument on his tongue. Harry had thought Sirius angry, but the spark in his eyes, the widened pupils and knitted brow, were hardly the marks of rising temper.

 _It's worry. He’s worried about me._ Even if it was irrational, even if his suggestions amounted to nothing, Sirius was worried enough to push Harry into any direction that might heighten his chances of surviving. Of lasting through what was rapidly evolving into a dangerous battle. It was that realisation that caused him to still further objections and nod with a quick jerk of his head.

“Oh, so Harry’s allowed out of the Great Hall but I’m supposed to sit here like a good little boy?”

“Shut up, Neville. It’s for your own good and if you thought about it for a moment, you’d realise it too.” Neville looked like he might pop a vein at Sirius’ words, but instead squeezed his lips closed so firmly they turned white. Grasping Ginny’s hand, he spun on his heel and strode away as quickly as his legs could take him. Harry watched them disappear into the sea of students in seconds.

The abrupt warmth of an embrace tugged his attention back to Sirius as his godfather engulfed him in a crushing hug. It knocked the air out of him so that he couldn’t have spoken even if he’d had anything to say. “You look after yourself, Harry. Go and get your wand, then come back to the Great Hall. Don’t take a second more than you have to.”

Harry could only nod tightly into Sirius’ shoulder. The hug was constricting, though more from its sheer force than from his mental discomfort. But it was over within moments, and Sirius had spun and disappeared in the opposite direction to Neville and Ginny.

Draco stepped up to his side, watching Sirius progress towards the Entrance Hall. “He’s probably right, you know. I know you don’t like using it, but just in case. We should take any precaution we can, yes?”

Meeting his friend’s eyes, Harry nodded shortly. It wasn’t so much that he didn’t like his wand, only… He couldn’t seem to get it to work the way others did. It seemed to lead him via an extensive scenic route to his destination rather than the shortcut the teachers preached it to be.

That and… no. No he didn’t really like it. Not with it being what it was.

“Maybe it’ll work this time,” Draco continued. “Magic works better when you’re emotionally invested; when it really counts. When you need to protect yourself. Or,” he smiled down at Harry. “When you need to protect someone else.”

Harry didn’t get a chance to consider Draco’s words before he wrapped his fingers around his wrist and tugged him from the Great Hall. He was towed like a train carriage through the Entrance Hall, stumbling up stairs in Draco’s wake. He didn’t complain, though. Draco knew the way to his rooms as well as he did – better, most likely – so it was hardly a problem who led the way.

As they reached the upper levels, they begun to pass a series of familiar glassless windows. With each passing glimpse into the night, Harry beheld a snatch of the situation outside. It was only a faint impression, blurred by distance and awkward angles, but it was an impression nonetheless.

The ring of fire appeared to be contracting, creeping closer towards the castle, constricting like a squeezed fist. The shadows that dotted the courtyard slunk forwards in contorted leaps alongside it. There seemed to be no overall strategy to the movement to the encroaching contrast of light and dark; if anything, the Death Eaters seemed to simply be revelling in the motions of their own vicious spell-casting. More than once he caught the cackle of laughter that followed a flaring fireball and the rumble of struck stone.

He couldn’t see the defenders at all. With a sinking feeling, he realised they were most likely backed up to the castle. Still there, still defending, yet driven backwards. Evidence of their continued defence, however, burst with beams of white light, in rippling barriers and counter-curses, before the spurting attack. The enemy curses struck the defences like fired arrows against raised shields in a sea of medieval warfare. The crackle of spells sizzling into _Protego_ Charms could be heard even from the corridor Harry and Draco strode through.

And in the distance…

“Draco, what is that?”

Pausing, Draco fell backwards a step to peer through the window. His eyes visibly widened.

“Are those giants? And shooting at them; are they centaurs?” Harry heard his own voice as an incredulous whisper.

Draco nodded slowly, his eyes fixed upon the figures that thundered from the depths of the Forbidden Forest. Their shapes cleared from a blurry mass of shadow as they neared the fire, morphing into individual forms. Dozens of creatures, impossibly tall, humanoid creatures, ploughed towards the castle. Their passage rumbled like a rolling boulder, several boulders. The stomping was punctuated by the split and crack of wood as they swung makeshift clubs of unmodified tree trunks and paddles of deadened branches.

Looping around their feet, as swift as sparrows darting through the air, half-man, half-horse beings cantered in wide circles. Bows fired arrows in showers at the giant’s heads, lassos caused the towering figures to stumble in jarring steps. Some even fell. But numerous as they were, the centaurs were doing little to slow the oncoming tide of giants.

“Those centaurs, are they from –“

“The Forbidden Forest? Yes… yes, I think they are. There’s a couple of herds in there. Those giants though…”

“They’re his?”

Harry didn’t really need an answer. It spoke for itself. Draco nodded anyway though. “He must have been recruiting. Who knows what else he’s got up his sleeve, what other magical creatures are on his side.” His fingers around Harry’s wrist trembled slightly for a moment, before he tugged them back into motion.

As Featherwood’s rooms came into sight, a shudder, larger than any before, shook the castle. Like an earthquake, it didn’t pause after it’s initial tremble, but vibrated with increasing force as it continued. Draco stumbled to a halt, slumping against the wall for support. Harry followed him, falling back first at the cold stone and sliding down to a crouch.

When the shudders of the walls finally stilled, Harry and Draco remained frozen.

Lurching back to his feet, Draco cast Harry a wide-eyed glance. “What the hell was that?”

Harry shook his head, rising to his own feet. His legs trembled awkwardly as he moved to the nearest window, wavering with echoing tremors of the castle. The sight that spread before him made him catch his breath.

Statues. Stone statues were scattered across the grounds. Only, they weren’t statues at all, at least not anymore. Statues didn’t _move,_ didn’t heft heavy maces and swing at offending assailants. Didn’t flourish broadswords with the skill of the knights of old.

“Statues?” Draco’s voice was hushed, awed, in Harry’s ear. He didn’t need to nod for confirmation. The evidence lay before them.

They were larger than humans, larger than the centaurs. Maybe that was what gave them a better chance against the giants. For charging head down towards them, it was with visible strain that the giants grounded themselves from they thrust them away, flinging the stone figures from their feet. The cracks of collision resounded nearly as loudly as the curses blasted to the walls. It didn’t do much, but the statues slowed their passage at least. Reminiscent of gladiators battling head on, the opponents swung their weapons like their lives depended upon it. For the giants at least, it likely did.

As Harry watched, the tides gradually turned. The statues seemed to be making the best of the towering invaders. At least until the lead giant, a mountain of a creature, swung his club and crumbled his opponent’s head from its shoulders. Roaring in triumph, the giant swung back his foot and smashed blunt toes into the decapitated head. Like a football, the head launched through the air in frantic cartwheels and smashed into the upper walls of Hogwarts.

Harry could have sworn the castle groaned in pain.

The idea seemed to have taken hold. Harry could see the slow cogs turning in the giants heads even before it fully begun and it sent a shiver down his spine. With unblinking eyes, he watched as body pieces were ripped from the statues. With horrifying ferocity, the humanoid creatures lobbed them like shot-puts at the stonewalls. Harry was reminded detachedly of a twisted re-enactment of trick-or-treaters at Halloween, tossing eggs at the houses of residents who refused them candy. Except instead of yolk running down windows, stone crumbled in torrents of dust from the castle’s heights. One impact overhead caused a shower of crumbs to rain down before the window Harry and Draco peered through.

Taking a step back, Harry spun and ran to Featherwood’s rooms. “We need to get back to the Great Hall,” he threw over his shoulder, but didn’t wait for Draco to reply. Pushing through the door and stumbling through the shadowed quarters, he immediately fell to searching for his want.

It was in his room, he remembered. In the bag he’d brought retrieved from his uncle’s house. Hastening through the living room, Harry lurched into the bedroom and fell to his knees beside the bed. With fumbling fingers, he dragged the bag from the hidden depths and thrust his hand inside. The feel of cold, polished hardness caused him to pause. The feeling was… unfamiliar. Vaguely foreign but distinctly recognisable.

Drawing it from his bag, his eyes locking onto his fingers and tension seizing his chest. There was no way he could see the object as anything but a weapon. Some might argue otherwise – most, in fact – but he just couldn’t. He couldn’t see it as otherwise, not with all the evidence of what it could do. It was practically made to injure people; the very thought made him want to thrust it away from himself. He never wanted to hurt anyone, even at the expense of his own safety. It was, Harry thought, the primary reason he so struggled with Defence Against the Dark Arts. He didn’t want to hurt anyone, never, and using such a weapon would only… He shuddered to think about it, disgust drawing a bitter, lingering taste on his tongue.

At least, it lingered until Draco’s words rung through his mind. _When you need to protect someone_. Staring down at the weapon resting awkwardly in his lap, he swallowed forcibly. Perhaps this wasn’t what Draco meant; though more ruthless than Harry – of that he was certain; he suspected most people were, and that wasn’t always a positive on his part – Draco would hardly be one to use offence as a defence. Not every time at least. But even so, the word protect… it resounded passionately through his mind.

Harry had never been in the position to defend someone before. He’d never had anyone he _wanted_ to protect. There was the time his uncle had threatened Lyssy, when he’d first taken her in, but it was a passing fancy and afterwards the man seemed to forget she existed entirely.

Now, if he used this weapon, even if it ended up injuring someone else… to protect someone he cared about wouldn’t be… it wouldn’t be _bad,_ would it? Harry wasn’t really good at magic; everyone marvelled when he managed something because he tended to grasp what he _could_ understand quickly and apply it practically with ease. But in general, he was incompetent. And it had little to do with inexperience; he knew that. Hell, he could barely produce fire because, well… realistically speaking, combusting energy into flame should be exhausting. It _should_ be hard. So for Harry, it was.

But maybe, just maybe… if he could manage to defend… it was worth trying, wasn’t it? Worth carrying the weapon just in case? To protect Draco; to defend Neville, or Ginny, Pansy or Blaise or Ron or Hermione. Professor McGonagall, or any of the other teachers, the other students, known and unknown. He could try. Couldn’t he?

“Harry?”

Draco’s voice called him from his thoughts. Stuffing the weapon into his pocket, Harry started to his feet and hurried in the direction of his friend’s voice.

Draco met him at the door, his head poking into the darkness and eyes blinking rapidly, grasping for light. In his arms, Lyssy kneaded the folds of his sleeves, lambent eyes flashing in the gloom.

“Here, I found…” Draco held out the cat awkwardly, placing her gingerly into Harry’s abruptly reaching arms. “I think she was waiting for you.”

Nodding, Harry shifted the cat to his shoulder. She butted his head gently. _**Where you go? Worried, silly kitten, I worried.**_ He gave her a small smile and patted her head affectionately before turning to Draco.

“Come on. We should go back.”

Without even nodded, Draco spun around and started back down the corridor. In seconds, they’d left Featherwood’s rooms behind them.

* * *

The silence that enveloped every Hogwarts students was worse than the frantic cries and nervous whispers. Slipping though the double doors of the Great Hall, Harry and Draco made their way uneasily through the frozen students.

 _They’re like statues themselves._ Only, there was nothing imposing about these ones, and Harry doubted any knew how to wield a sword.

Draco was the first to spy their friends. Ron and Hermione appeared to have been recruited by Madam Pomfrey and were comforting the younger students – and some of the older ones too – with varying degrees of success. In contrast, Blaise and Pansy seemed to have cloistered themselves in their own little world upon one distant bench. They murmured to one another so quietly that despite the surrounding silence, not a breath or whisper could be heard. Neville and Ginny were seated just beside them, but both were as tight-lipped as when they had stormed away from Sirius. Neville fiddled with the locket around his neck absently, his eyes staring blankly ahead.

Sinking onto the bench beside them, nestling Lyssy gently into his lap, Harry leant into Neville’s field of vision in an attempt to catch his eye. “Neville? Are you… do you feel sick?” For he looked so pale Harry thought him on the verge of illness.

Neville blinked rapidly, gaze drawing back into focus. “Sick?” He shrugged heavily. “No, not really. I just feel so bloody useless here.” His voice was low, but heads still turned towards them at his words.

“Not useless,” Draco murmured, perching himself on the bench beside Harry. He somehow managed to modulate his voice so that Harry doubted any of the now listening ears could detect a word. “We’ve a job to do, too –“

“Which I don’t have one fucking clue what to do about,” Neville growled, even lower than before. His lips pulled back in a snarl, and Harry found himself unconsciously drawing away from him. The Gryffindor boy was angry – more angry than seemed appropriate, even given the circumstances – and it seemed that the crushing grasp he now had on the locket was doing little to relieve such anger.

Another rumble through the castle caused them all to turn their faces overhead. The candle’s suspended magically in the air wavered slightly, as though shrinking from the roof for fear of collapse. The magical sky roiled and morphed in a turbulent mass of purple clouds and sparking lightning. It was as though it had darkened in mourning of the ensuing battle.

Moments passed in uneasy silence, until the heavy dragging of footsteps announced the arrival of Hermione and Ron. The pair sunk down onto the bench and floor respectively, shoulder sagging. They looked drawn, exhausted; Harry couldn’t blame them. At least he, Draco, Neville and Ginny had gotten a decent sleep in the last twenty-four hours. He doubted the two Gryffindors had been quite so lucky.

“You right, mate?” Ron nudged Neville with his elbow. The other boy only grunted in response. He seemed to be becoming more depressed by the moment. Ron sighed. “Still no luck then?”

Harry assumed he was talking about the Horcrux, that Neville had informed them of their finding. Hopefully away from listening ears; Harry couldn’t imagine that the presence of a piece of Voldemort’s soul in the midst of frightened pupils would be looked upon favourably.

“I’ve been thinking about that,” Hermione muttered, rubbing a hand through the lines creasing her forehead. Her fingers pressed red imprints into pale skin. “Dumbledore didn’t tell you anything else about how to destroy Horcruxes?”

Neville shook his head. “He just told me that the Sword of Gryffindor was a fool proof method. And since we had the Sword…”

“Which we now don’t, yes, I know.” Hermione’s voice was all practical efficiency, devoid of even a hint of condescension. Rather, despite her weariness, she appeared to be deeply in thought. “Why the Sword though?”

“Maybe ‘cause it was Godric Gryffindor’s?” Ron suggested. He was similarly frowning in thought, though his rapid blinking and the occasional rub of drooping eyelids suggested he was on the verge of slipping into sleep. “The opposite of Slytherin, or something?”

“Except that Horcruxes aren’t a product of Slytherin,” Draco muttered. His own face was clouded in thought. “I highly doubt the Dark Lord is in fact the heir of Slytherin, despite popular belief. Which means that the ancient blood feuds of the four founders would mean nothing.”

“It was just a suggestion,” Ron replied, lips down-turning. “No offense, jeez.”

“None taken,” Draco replied graciously.

“There must have been some reason for it,” Hermione ploughed on, riding straight over the disruption. “Perhaps it was spelled to act upon Horcruxes somehow?”

“Could we do something like that?” Ron straightened his back slightly, suddenly focused. “If we got a sword, o-or a weapon of some sort, do you think we could spell it to kill a Horcrux?”

“Destroy it, Ron, not kill. They’re not living. And I don’t know; we don’t even have a clue of what the spell could be.”

Ron slumped into his seat once more, sliding backwards to lean against Hermione’s legs. “Damn, you’re right.” He sighed heavily. “There goes that theory.”

“Not entirely.” Ginny leaned forwards slightly, her voice low. “Maybe we can figure it out. What do we know about the Sword?”

“Sorry, Gin, I don’t think this is time for a lecture in the history of magical weaponry.”

“Be quite, Ron, I wasn’t talking about that. I meant –“

“What _do_ we know?” Neville finally spoke up. His voice was still disgruntled, but at least he was participating in the brainstorming. Another rumble overhead drew all eyes, but it passed quickly and he continued. “Other than that it was Godric Gryffindor’s? It’s just an ordinary sword, isn’t it?”

“You used it to kill the basilisk, though, didn’t you?” Harry broke his own silence, raising an eyebrow towards Neville. “That’s what you told me; when you were in second year, that Fawkes brought you the Sorting Hat and –“

“I pulled the Sword from it…” Neville’s tone had taken on a thoughtful quality. It was a welcome relief from his grumbling. “And you’re right, I did kill the basilisk with it. But an ordinary Sword could do that, right? Couldn’t it?”

“Maybe we’re focusing on the wrong things entirely,” Hermione broke in. “The Sword _appeared_ to you, didn’t it? As a true Gryffindor –“

“Didn’t we just acknowledge that this wasn’t anything to do with the Founder’s blood feuds?” Hermione stuttered to a halt as Ron cut her off. She opened her mouth briefly then clicked it closed. A flash of annoyance flickered across her face though Harry thought it was more directed towards the realisation of the hiccup in her reasoning than at the interruption itself.

“Maybe, maybe not,” Neville murmured near silently. “Dumbledore said something to me once, about the Sword. I didn’t really consider it important at the time, but maybe…” He frowned down at his toes, fingers picking idly at the locket.

Ginny inched up the bench towards him, tugging his fingers from the Horcrux. “What did he say?”

“That the Sword of Gryffindor will utilise that which will draw upon its true strength, upon that which will make it stronger.”

“What the hell does that mean?” Ron pressed his palms into his eyes, grumbling in frustration. “That doesn’t help at all.”

“Did he mean you as a person? Or as a Gryffindor?” Draco suggested. “To _’utilises that which will draw its true strength’_ ; maybe it just had to be wielded by a Gryffindor, simple as that.”

For whatever reason, Draco’s thoughts didn’t ring quite true. Harry couldn’t pinpoint why exactly, but he apparently wasn’t the only one who thought as much; Ginny was shaking her head slowly, frowning thoughtfully at the floor.

_**Eats it. Does it eat it? When you sleep and eat, stronger. Makes Cat stronger, to eat more.** _

Harry couldn’t help the small smile that tugged wearily at his lips at Lyssy’s own suggestion in spite of the situation. He was only mildly surprised that she was contributing in the conversation; the little cat was doing more and more of such recently. Harry wondered if she was simply listening to the thoughts as they passed through his head.

“I don’t think ‘eating’ is what Neville’s talking about,” he murmured, scratching a finger under Lyssy’s collar. Draco glanced quizzically towards him, but he only shook his head, waving aside the unspoken question.

A brooding silence ensued. It could have been the tired nervousness of their minds that slowed any progress in the matter, or perhaps the solution simply didn’t exist. Maybe there was simply no other way to destroy Horcruxes other than with the Sword. The thought speared through Harry forebodingly.

Though the rumbles around the castle had continued unendingly throughout their discussion, when a particularly explosive collision trembled the building’s foundations, the entire student body started, cowering fearfully. An echo of voices beat at the doors to the Great Hall, rising in volume until with a burst the double doors folded inwards and figures streamed through the opening.

At first, mind clouded in fear, Harry thought the Death Eaters had finally broken through the Order and professor’s defences. His heart starting beating again as he recognised a number of the faces of those striding into the hall. Rising to his feet alongside Draco, in tandem with every other student, he watched as the defenders of the school, familiar and unfamiliar, wove through the trembling audience. McGonagall and Sirius, Snape and the Weasleys – there were at least six of them now, all identifiable by the vivid colour of their hair – Emmaline Vance and Dedalus Diggle. A man that looked enough like Neville that he had to be Frank Longbottom. Madam Hooch, Sprout and Flitwick, Moody… Every teacher, alongside over half a dozen other faces that Harry didn’t know. There didn’t appear to be any casualties, but he didn’t recognise enough of them to be certain.

Each face was set in grim lines and smudges of soot across pale skin. Patches of dark blood stained clothes on almost half of them. One of the Weasley boys – one of the twins – appeared to still be bleeding from a wound in the side of his head. The sight of it churned Harry’s gut.

 _This is real. This is actually happening._ For despite it all, despite watching he giants and the centaurs, even after beholding the fiery onslaught of spells from the Death Eaters and feeling the warmth of their conjured flames, it hadn’t quite sunk in. Clutching Lyssy tightly to his chest, his eyes flickered between the newly arrived wizards and witches. Almost without thought he took a step closer to Draco’s side.

Snippets of words could be heard from Order members and professors alike, despite their deliberately hushed tones. They appeared in deep conversation, discussing with one another in huddled groups of two or three, whispering to Madam Pomfrey as she wrung her hands worriedly or muttering charms that glowed white as they stuck the doors to the Great Hall in what Harry could only assume were protective charms. The Hogwarts students waited anxiously, tongues stilled with fear, in such profound silence that the hushed words rung sporadically with unnatural loudness.

“…too many of them for us to face head on…”

“What do we do? Send them… the students…?”

“Lupin shouldn’t be far off. We can only hope he’ll manage to bring them…”

“And _him?_ Has anyone seen –?”

Even those faint words drew a tremor of nervousness from the listeners. A nervousness that spiked into terror as, with a resounding _BANG,_ a force struck the doors to the Great Hall.

Students shrieked in terror. More than one wailed in a cracking moan that bounced in echoes off the walls. Another strike, the doors quaking violently, and as one the mass of students, professors and Order members in the hall shrunk back to the far end of the room. The press of bodies was barely a mild discomfort to Harry now – or perhaps his nerves were simply too high-strung already. Sobs and moans battered at his ears so loudly that he couldn’t hear himself think.

“Silence!”

The bellowing call of McGonagall immediately stilled every tongue. Another strike to the double doors caused further shrinking, but everyone maintained their attentiveness.

Casting a hard glance over her pupils, McGonagall spoke with resolute firmness. “We will proceed through the staff entrance at the back of the Hall. I will not abide pushing, shoving or fighting for precedence. We will move in an orderly fashion and we _will_ do so without fuss.”

Gesturing towards a single door – it looked far to small to admit hundreds of students – McGonagall nodded towards the stout form of the Hufflepuff Head of House. “Following Professor Sprout, you will make your way through to the inner sanctum of the castle. Further directions will be given shortly.”

It was remarkable how a few simple directions managed to instil focus, collectedness even, amongst the terrified students. Whimpers still quavered through the air but there was a definite air of determination on a number of faces Harry glimpsed. Or perhaps he mistook what was instead simply eagerness to flee from what was likely to become another battlefield.

Like a sentient creature, the mass of the student body flowed towards the staff entrance. It was slow moving, students pouring through the small opening with the viscosity of honey.

A hand suddenly grasped Harry’s elbow, long fingers locking firmly. Glancing to his side, he met Draco’s eyes. “Stay beside me,” he whispered. “Please.” Harry nodded. He didn’t need to be told twice.

Ron and Hermione had disappeared into the sea of students – drawn with the current or moving purposely to fulfil their roles as prefects, Harry didn’t know – and he could only distantly see Blaise’s head between pressing shoulders. Neville and Ginny were just behind them, the Gryffindor girl speaking frantically into Neville’s ear. At first Harry couldn’t hear a word of it over the stomping of feet, but when it reached his ears he paused and half-turned towards them.

“… if it _did_ do something. Killing a basilisk wouldn’t have, couldn’t have, left it unchanged, surely? It- it’s a magical creature!” She spoke hurriedly, tripping over her tongue in her eagerness.

Neville frowned back at her, tugging at the locket around his neck. “True, but I still don’t –“

“Listen, what if it doesn’t just ‘utlise’ that which makes it stronger? What if it absorbs it, too? Sort of… eats it.”

Harry started at the mirror of Lyssy’s thoughts. _Eat it? What –?_

But Draco, similarly listening, appeared to have understood in a way Harry didn’t. Slowing slightly to draw closer to their friends, he ducked his head and spoke in swift, low tones. “You’re saying it’s imbued with some of the magical properties from the basilisk? What, with it’s venom or something?”

Ginny glanced towards him, nodding shortly. “That’s exactly what I’m saying. When Neville,” she turned towards him. “When you stabbed it in second year, the Sword of Gryffindor… what if it absorbed some of the venom?”

Stumbling slightly with the motion of the moving crowd, Neville shook his head. “That’s a helluva leap to make, Ginny. We have no way of knowing how realistic that theory is.”

“But you have to admit, it’s a possibility.”

“It is. A possibility. But we don’t _know._ And it would be a huge risk to take; what, we go down to the Chamber of Secrets, snag a basilisk fang and see what happens when we stab the locket?”

“I…” Ginny trailed off, turning from Neville’s frowning face and biting her lip. Neville patted her arm consolingly, but she seemed more saddened by it than anything.

“It’s worth a try, though.” Hefting Lyssy further into his arms, Harry met Neville’s eyes stare for stare. “Honestly, Neville, it is. What other options do we have?”

“And if it doesn’t work?”

Harry shrugged. “Then at least we’ve have tried something. It’s better than sitting here doing nothing, right?” He widened his eyes imploringly. “Please, Neville. It’s the last one, isn’t it? Destroy that Horcrux and it’s just him.”

He could see the collective efforts of himself, Draco and Ginny were getting through to Neville. The hesitancy on his face was still strong, but it wavered slightly. Another insistent bang on the doors of the Great Hall drew all of their eyes. A push at Harry’s back nearly sent him stumbling from his feet as the tide of students behind him struggled to press themselves forwards. Neville, stumbling himself, frowned worriedly as he continued. “How would we even make it there? We’d have to slip past the Death Eaters, make it to the Moaning Myrtle’s bathroom and Parseltongue our way into the Chamber. All without the Death Eaters noticing. It’s suicide.”

“We’d be signing our own death warrants if we did nothing, though,” Draco reasoned. “What have we got to lose?” He gave Harry’s arm a tug as, finally making it to the staff door, he passed through the adjacent room. What appeared to be a long, low-ceilinged hallway, almost a tunnel, jam-packed with students like sardines in a can pressed their way further into the bowels of the castle. They inched forwards at a snails pace, winding slowly through corridors that were bent like a labyrinth, so twisted that within minutes Harry couldn’t point with certainty towards the direction they’d come from.

Harry didn’t notice Neville’s hesitancy, not through the uncomfortable wading through the tight hallway. It was not until the Gryffindor boy locked his jaw and finally nodded that he even glanced back at him. “Fine. But I’ll go by myself. It’s too dangerous for all of us to try and come along.”

“Neville, don’t you start –“

“No, Ginny. It’s too dangerous.” He clasped her hand firmly in his own, eyebrows drawing upwards worriedly as he met her gaze. “What would I possibly do if something happened to you?”

Ginny, on the verge of protesting, didn’t get a chance to reply for in that moment, like a river pooling into a lake, they filed into a cavernous room nearly as large as the Great Hall. The walls were absent of windows and candles, but an ambient light illuminated the scene. Low chairs that looked like couches bereft of cushions and a number of hospital-like beds ran in lines the length of the room. Only a single door at the far end, opposite to that which they had entered, provided a break in the smooth, monotonous stonewalls.

Buzzing of conversation hung in the air; apparently with distance from the enemy the students of Hogwarts had regained their composure. At the centre of the room, Sprout and Flitwick were directing students. To the side, Madam Pomfrey bent over the seated figure of someone, an Order member perhaps that Harry didn’t recognise, and pressed gently at their temple. Students of all houses sought seating, folding themselves into huddled groups and peering around themselves anxiously.

Harry, Draco, Neville and Ginny barely got a chance to assess their newest waiting room before they were interrupted by one entirely Harry unexpected. Snape descended upon them like a raven, black robes billowing, and regarded their quartet with piercing black eyes.

“Longbottom, come with me.”

“What?” Harry wasn’t sure who was more startled, Neville or Draco. Draco blinked incredulously at his Head of House while the Gryffindor boy seemed so surprised that he forsook even a glare at his most hated teacher. “Where? Why?”

“Don’t ask questions. Follow me.” With a swirl of his robes, Snape departed. It was eerie how he could disappear so effectively amidst the students despite his height.

“What the…?” Neville looked faintly horrified as he stared at the path of Snape’s passage. As though he could provide answers, he glanced towards Draco. “Do you…?”

“No idea,” Draco replied. “But I wouldn’t keep him waiting if I were you. He’ll be back if you leave it too long, and you’ll be lucky to escape with your head.”

Though still frowning, Neville nodded. He touched Ginny once more on her arm before weaving through students and similarly disappearing. Ginny peered anxiously after him, but when Harry suggested they find somewhere to sit and wait for him she ceded her watching and followed their lead.

They didn’t have long to wait. No sooner had the sat down beside Pansy and Blaise than Neville had appeared before them again. A frown furrowed his forehead and the worry on his face had intensified.

Sparing only a feeble smile for Ginny, Neville turned – surprisingly – to Harry. “Look, I don’t have much time; Snape says we need to go somewhere. I don’t know where, but it sounded like we won’t be back anytime soon. I,” his voice caught for a moment and his head tipped down towards the locket that swung like a pendulum from his neck. “I’m sorry, I don’t want to do this, but –“

‘For Merlin’s sake, Neville, just give us the locket,’ Draco said harshly. Neville swung his eyes towards him, blinking in surprise. His flickered his gaze between the Draco’s determined expression and his outstretched hand.

“What’s all this?” Pansy shifted in her seat, shifting her own gaze between them curiously. “What’s that you’ve got, Neville?”

Neither boy answered her. Slowly, hesitantly, Neville slipped the locket from his neck. “You can hold it till I get back?”

Draco shrugged. “Sure. We have to wait for you, anyway. How else would we get into the chamber? You said it was locked by snake-tongue password, didn’t you? I’m not sure about everybody else, but I’m certainly not a Parseltongue.”

Smiling wanly, Neville nodded his gratitude. “I’ll try not to be long.” And he darted away just as quickly as before.

“What’s all this about?” Pansy repeated, leaning over Draco’s shoulder to peer at the locket. Draco handed it into Harry to draw it from Pansy’s curious eyes. Harry took it obligingly, looping the chain around his wrist before tucking his hands around Lyssy once more. Pansy scowled at the lack of reply, but asked no more.

The professors were making short work of stabilising the situation. McGonagall, standing at the head of the room, briefly informed them in a pointless explanation of what they already knew, that they were to remain calm and follow the directions of the adults around them. That Ministry support was sent for an on its way, and that they would remain safe if they stayed put.

Speculative murmurs followed. There was nothing to do but wait and that probably made everything worse. Leaning against Draco, Harry kept up a steady stroke of Lyssy’s ears, the chain of the locket clinking softly with every movement of his wrist. Ron and Hermione appeared shortly after McGonagall’s announcement, dropping into their own seats and succumbing to similar silence. Even Pansy seemed to have little to say.

Neville didn’t return. Long minutes passed, and Ginny seemed to become more and more with each moment of his absence. The distant rumbling throughout the castle was muted somehow, smothered. Harry had to wonder how deeply embedded in the castle they were. Were they underground? The prospect made him feel slightly claustrophobic.

Everything was stillness and hush. Only briefly did one of them voice a comment – Hermione speculating if the teachers needed any help, Ron informing his sister that George, one of the twins, had received a head wound but was alright – but anxiousness quickly stemmed idle chatter. Harry, fighting to ease the tension from his shoulders, had to wonder how long they could all remain in such a state before snapping.

He didn’t have a chance to find out. The rumbles had been distant, and Harry almost felt as though they were moving away, perhaps even ceasing. Until a buzzing feeling drew his eyes to the distant wall, beside the door they had entered through. It looked _warm,_ if such a thing were possibly visible. Pushing himself up from his slump against Draco, he frowned at the faded stone. It could have been his imagination, but even at such a distance, he could swear it… vibrated? Like cement under a jackhammer.

Draco turned to speak to him, just opening his mouth, when the collision hit. At least, Harry assumed it was a collision. It could have been an explosive spell of sorts. He wasn’t sure. It hardly mattered. All he knew was that the wall caved in with a shower of tumbling bricks that put the giants’ work to shame.

Screams erupted. Dust whooshed into the air with the speed of a vacuum. Bodies lurched to their feet, stumbling in their haste to retreat from the tumbling onslaught of showering stone. In an avalanche the far wall crumbled, rolling jagged stones as large as tables across the room. To Harry’s horror, he caught a glimpse as a young girl, stumbling in her retreat, became crushed beneath one such rock with a cry that abruptly cut off with a sickening crunch. He could swear he heard it from across the room.

Shouts of professors and Order members broke through the terrified screams. Directions were thrown at students but hung suspended, unheeded. Stumbling over his own feet, clutching Lyssy tightly to his chest, Harry met Draco’s wide-eyed stare before lurching into retreat.

Black-clad figures swum through the dust into the room. Hoods concealed faces, but it made little difference. There was no confusion as to their identify. Wands raised and before most of the students had made their way across the floor a dozen curses blasted through the air.

Harry wasn’t sure if he would have been hit if Draco hadn’t bodily thrown him to the floor. The room spun around him and he wasn’t sure if the flat expanse of stone before him was a wall or the floor. His vision blurred, fogging, and it took him a moment to realise his glasses had nearly dislodged from his face.

Pained cries clogged heavily in his ears. The feel of cat claws digging into his shoulder should have been painful, but he barely felt it. Fingers fumbling frantically, he clutched onto the nearest body. Draco? _He couldn’t see him!_

Another explosion, terrifyingly close. Harry ducked his head as a scattering of fragmented stone cascaded over his head. Chips flicked his skin in sharp stings. He squeezed his eyes closed, squeezed the arm in his grasp. The undulating ring of the aftershock echoed in his ears.

“…arry… Harry, come on, get up!”

Draco’s voice. It was muffled, as though he spoke through a woollen blanket, but it drew Harry lurching to his feet, towards the sound. Draco’s face swum into view, blonde hair hanging limply in his eyes and a smear of dust smearing across half his face. His expression was frantic, terrified – which was bad. Draco never showed when he was scared.

Harry barely had a chance to cast a glance at his surroundings – rubble strewn across the expanse of floor, couches splintered beneath piles of rock, figures scrambling frantically before the oncoming tide of Death Eaters – before Draco was tugging his arm once more. They were next to the wall; or what had been a wall. A yawning hole bit into the very centre.

It was likely that it was because they were shadowed by the wall that they had escaped the notice of the intruders. They likely could have pressed themselves to the floor, buried their heads and hoped for the best, to be overlooked, but Draco was evidently taking no such chances.

Harry blinked frantically as he watched him visibly set his jaw, sparing only a brief glance over his shoulder before starting through the newest exit to the room. Moved in a half-crouch, shoulders hunched and head ducked, he pulled Harry from the room. Glancing over his shoulder, Harry scanned quickly for familiar figures – Ron, Hermione; where was Pansy and Blaise? And Ginny? – but he didn’t see any of them. His gut clenched at the sight of limp, half-concealed bodies flung like ragdolls across the room. They looked like students. Black figures stepped over them, on them, as they cornered the remaining occupants.

_Oh God, what if…?_

He didn’t know what. If they were his friends? The thought made him nauseous, but then the thought of anyone, familiar or not, crushed beneath stone or blasted by a Killing Curse, was devastating.

“Less thinking, more running,” Draco barked, coughing around a lungful of dust. Harry flinched at the harshness of his voice but hastened to comply. Behind him he could swear he felt the gazes of Death Eaters turn towards them, realising the escape of potential targets. The thought steadied his feet, giving them wings for flight.

The hallways the fell into, clambering through the broken wall of the hidden room, were unfamiliar. Draco didn’t seemed to care. His coughing stopped after a few moments, and only their rhythmic panting matched the slap of their shoes on the stone floors. When the echo of shouts finally died in the distance, they slowed to a stop.

“We need to do something.”

Harry nodded at Draco’s words, though his mind blanked. “W-what can we do? How can we help them?” His breath was coming heavily, and not entirely from exertion. He clasped absently at the curled form of Lyssy pressed painfully tight to his shoulder.

Grasping Harry’s wrist, Draco brought the locket wrapped around it to head-height. “This. We can destroy this.” He prodded the locket for emphasis.

“But what about everyone else –“

“You think we can do something? That if we go back we can help them?” Draco’s voice was thick with emotion but his gaze was steady.

Harry opened and closed his mouth mutely, grasping for a reply. Draco made sense, but the thought of leaving them, _any_ of them, was…

“Look, I know. But we’d be about as useful in a fight as a Spitting Wasp against an elephant.” His hand still drifted to his pocket, to his wand, as though regretting the words. Harry felt his mind flicker briefly to his own pocket. “What we can do is get rid of this. Even the playing field, even if only by a little bit.”

“We don’t know if it will work,” Harry mumbled. The more he thought about it, the greater their dependence upon the theory, the more outlandish it seemed.

Draco shook his head. “No, we don’t. But what the hell else can we do?”

 _He’s terrified_ , a voice in the back of Harry’s mind murmured. A mirroring mental whimper from Lyssy echoed the sentiment. Swallowing the scratchy taste of dust, Harry nodded.

“Okay. Let’s go.”


	28. Leaping Each Hurdle

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I am so sorry for the slight lateness of updates. I don't really have an excuse; little things getting in the way and I just lost track of time!  
> Before I start, I would just like to say a massive THANK YOU to bafflinghaze, R and tnbh. Each of your comments last chapter were absolutely lovely; it made me so happy. And even better that I recognised each of you for the beautiful comments you've each afforded me in the past. Thank you, guys. Thank you so much.  
> If anyone can spare a second to offer a comment, I would appreciate it so much. You have no idea; it means so much.
> 
> *NOTE: this chapter contains words directly taken from DH. In case you didn't realise, they're not mine.

Of course, it was only when they'd made it halfway to the reported 'bathroom' that they realised the flaw in their plan.

“Fuck!” Draco skidded to a halt, nearly tugging Harry off his feet with his abruptness. “We can't bloody well get in”

Harry turned to him questioningly, panting silently for a moment before comprehension dawned. “Neville said –“

“Parseltongue. Opening up the Chamber of Secrets needs the request of a Parseltongue.” He huffed a bark of mirthless laughter. “Of course it would.”

“What do we do?” Harry's eyes were steadily widening behind glasses faintly fogged in dust. “Should we look for Neville?”

“I don't know any other Parseltongue's around. Do you?” Draco turned in a circle, dragging his gaze over the empty hallways as though he could hope to summon Neville with the mere thought of him. “Though how we’re supposed to find him is beyond me. Where did Snape even take him, anyway?” He knew his voice was more of a whine than anything else, but he was too frantic, too highly strung, to care.

“Can we fake it somehow?”

Draco glanced towards Harry. He too looked to be growing in panic, though looked more on the verge of emptying his stomach contents onto the floor rather than playing host to the overwhelming urge to strike something as Draco was. “What do you mean?”

Harry flung his arms in the air in an uncharacteristically verbose display of distress. “I don't know! Pretend Parseltongue? Is there something you can say that's similar to it? How does someone even learn Parseltongue?”

“You don't learn it; you're born with it.” Draco raked a hand through his hair. “And no, I don't think so. Unless we got, I don't know, a snake or something? Made it talk for us?” It was an utterly ridiculous notion, but Draco was desperate.

“Where would we possibly get a snake? _Un serpent dans une ecole?_ How would you even get a snake to talk to a door?!” Harry's hands clutched at Lyssy, still miraculously clinging to his shoulder, and grasped her like a lifeline.

 _At least he's not scratching his neck again,_ Draco thought. That was something. Some positive in the disaster rapidly settling upon them. Still, Harry’s distress was evident; Draco’s brief experiences with his discomfort generally showed an erratic switching between languages as one of the more noticeable symptoms. Not that, at least in this instance, the translation wasn't basically self-explanatory.

“I don't know,” Draco growled, tugging at his hair once more. “I've hardly even seen a snake before! Maybe we could bait it or some –“ Draco's voice abruptly cut off as he stared at Lyssy. It was both so obvious and so ridiculous that he was surprised and a little relieved that he hadn't thought if before. “The collar. We could use the collar.”

Harry dropped his eyes to the cat pressed against his shoulder. His fingers brushed over the woven band of cyanogriffin thread and apatite studs. “Would that work?”

“It should do,” Draco asserted excitedly. “It's supposed to work for any animal large enough to wear the collar. The bigger the better.” At least, that's what the salesman had said. It could have been a boast, a marketing ploy, but Draco considered himself fairly adept at discerning such underhanded ploys. “Come on, it's the best we've got.”

He stumbled to a halt in his enthusiasm, however, when the absence of a key subject in the plan failed to present itself. “Oh, bloody hell. We still need a snake.” He groaned, squeezing his eyes shut as his fingers locked into his hair once more. A crazed part of him mind shook its head in horror at the mess he was making of his hairstyle, but it was only a small part. At this rate, he was set to tear it all out.

Hopeless. Utterly hopeless. Oh yes, it was such a great idea, until you take into account that one needed a bloody snake.

“Wait, what if... not a snake... what if...?”

Draco opened his eyes. A thoughtful gleam in Harry's eyes made him cringe internally. They held the same consideration Draco recognised from experience, the thoughtfulness of when he was nine and thought to trick himself into casting accidental magic by jumping off the manor roof. It hadn't ended so well.

“What?”

“It's not a snake, but... Squirt speaks Parseltongue.”

When Draco finally realised that Harry spoke of he hydra, it was too late to change his mind. He had to sprint to chase after him as Harry disappeared down the hallway at a run.

* * *

It could never have been as easy as simply marching down to Hagrid's hut, though in retrospect Draco supposed they were lucky to get most of the way unchallenged. It was only when they breached the outer walls of the castle that confrontation arose.

Draco was almost too slow to respond when the first curse shot their way. It came in a blast of unexpectedness, diagonal rather than front on. The assailant was so well-hidden by the darkness of the night that only the flare of the spell cast them into visibility. Draco's lurching leap, crashing into Harry and dragging them both to the ground, spared them. Rolling hastily to his feet, he whipped his wand from the pocket of his cowled robe and pointed it towards the broad, imposing figure striding towards him.

_“Expulsio!”_

The spell burst from the tip of Draco’s wand and smacked into the black-robed figure. He was flung backwards, tumbling across the expanse of lawn into the distance. The slight bouncing, as though the ground were made of sponge, was almost comical.

Draco didn't have time to congratulate himself for his swift spell work. As though drawn by the prospect of a fight, two more figures suddenly appeared from the gloom.

“Well, well, well, what do we have here? Two little canaries, flying the coup?”

The grumbling words of the taller figure were accompanied by a high chuckle of his companion. Draco wasn't entirely certain but for an instant the voice sounded horribly familiar.

“Would you care to do the honours, Meera?” Extending his wand hand, the speaker gestured to the figure at his side. Though they both too were hooded, it was apparent she was a woman.

“Love two,” Meera purred, and Draco barely had time to throw up a shield before vibrant orange light shot towards him. It spread like liquid fire across the glassy surface of his defences.

Thus ensued both the fastest and slowest battle of Draco's life. Grounding his feet, he flung up shield after shield as they were torn down ad blasted aside, firing a wayward curse when possible but focusing almost entirely upon protection. Meera and her male companion - and the third figure, when he finally regained his feet - fired mercilessly. There was no rhythm to their casting, no gentlemanly taking of turns. They struck with intent, to banish and puncture Draco's wearying defences. Not a one-stepped forward, however. They appeared content to wear him down at a distance.

The only thought that passed through his mind was that he had to protect Harry. He didn't glance behind him to see if the other boy had regained his feet from where he’d thrown him to the ground; he didn't have a moment to spare. Certainly, had Harry been able to help him, to cast a shield or fire off a few spells of his own, it would have provided just that little bit of extra support. But Draco knew it was impossible. Harry had never been able to cast such spells, offensive or defensive. He could hardly expect him to help. Draco didn't feel even the slightest regret for the fact. He didn't have even a moment to consider it.

With the collapse of his latest shield, Draco took the opportunity to fire another offensive spell. Perhaps they were distracted, or perhaps it had been a lucky strike, but for whatever reason the Expelliarmus struck the tallest man with a crunch of impact. His own shields must have been up, however, for he only stumbled back a few paces, hood falling back. The sight it presented cause Draco to freeze, choking on his breath.

“Mr Crabbe?”

The face was familiar, even in at a distance, even in the gloom. The same wide flatness of his son, the cropped hair and short stubble that Draco recalled from his childhood. It hurt, more than he could say, that this man, this familiar man whom he had known for so long, would rain down magical assault upon him without a second thought.

He was distracted. That was the main reason he forgot to reaffirm his shield. That, and his wand arm felt jarringly immobilised. It was only when a burst of redness sprung from the woman's wand and soared like a falcon towards him that he recalled the gravity of his situation. He raised his arm protectively against the spell -

_\- too slow -_

\- flinched, and stumbled backwards as the sparks collided with a thick, translucent shield. Like a firework, the redness pooled in the darkness of the night in an explosion of colours.

A firm grasp latched onto Draco's forearm, catching him as he fought to regain his footing. He spun wildly to face Harry, who met his eyes with his own, widened with terror.

“D-Draco?! Are you alright? You're not –“

Glancing between the shield and Harry, the firework fading from its trembling surface, understanding dawned. “Harry, you...?”

“Are you hurt? What happened, did something hit you? I didn't see.” Harry’s voice cracked, pitched thin and high with worry.

Fumbling to grasp his fingers in reassurance, Draco shook his head hastily. “I'm fine, I- I was just… just distracted.” His own voice caught on the word as he glanced towards Mr Crabbe. The shock had retreated but the pain still held. “Sorry.”

Harry didn't get a chance to reply before another round of spells fired towards them. Draco felt him flinch into him upon contact, but otherwise the impact of the trio of spells didn't appear to have any effect. As the spells cleared, the faintly purplish shield, almost lost in the darkness of night, remained. Not a crack or dent could be seen.

 _It's strong,_ Draco thought, surprise washing away the last of his horrified shock. “How are you doing that?”

Shaking his head, Harry clutched more tightly to Draco's arm. His fingers trembled slightly. “I-I'm not sure. I just thought you were going to get hit, so somehow... I’ve never done that before. I didn’t think I could.”

Shaking his own head, Draco choked out an incredulous laugh. “Well, whatever you're doing, don't stop.” And with a deep breath, Draco raised his wand to attack.

It was pure luck, really, that his spell passed through the shield. It wasn't his own shield that he would know its individual properties, and more simplistic protective charms worked both ways: while attacks couldn't penetrate, neither could they escape. But like light passing through glass, the propulsion charm speared towards the Death Eaters and struck Mr Crabbe in the chest. Draco must have put more force behind it than he realised.

Apparently comprehending the turn of events, the remaining Death Eaters shared a glance and rippled into action. Racing towards the shield, over the twenty meters between them, they were but a blur in the darkness, swathed as they were in black robes. Draco pointed his wand towards the other man, barking a hasty “ _Levicorpus_ ”. The attacker turned a somersault in the air before soaring into the distant sky.

Barely pausing to ensure the man's progress, Draco turned towards the woman just as she reached the shield. She was sprinting like a bounding deer, so fleet footed it was as though the heavy robes hardly impeded her. She leapt… and promptly slammed into the surface of the shield as though it were a brick wall. Reeling backwards, hood slipping off to reveal a shock of blonde hair and a nose crushed into a bloody mess, she wove dazedly for a moment before crumbling to the ground. She didn't rise again.

Draco and Harry were frozen. The lull after the fight seemed to be a cheap trick. But finally, with a ragged inhalation, Draco eased the tension from his muscles. “We...” His voice was barely a croak.

“Yeah,” Harry replied. The hold he had on Draco's left arm hadn't loosened a bit.

“Your shield's physical, too?”

Harry glanced towards him, raising a questioning eyebrow. “Of course.”

 _Of course it is._ Draco shook his head. Harry didn't understand the rule of basic shield charms; that only the more complex allowed one-way magical passage, let alone providing a physical barrier too. It was almost funny. Draco had to bite back a near-hysterical outburst of laughter.

“Come on, then. Before anyone else shows up.” Leading the way, Draco turned and started back onto the path to Hagrid's hut. Harry's shield still hung suspended in the air. Draco didn't question it, didn't tell him to drop it. It was miraculous that it even existed; best not to push the situation further than necessary.

* * *

They had to wade through the lake once more to access Hagrid's hut. The barrier of fire was closer to the school than it had been, but it also appeared to have died down. Not hugely, but enough to be noticeable. Draco could have attempted an Extinguishing Charm, but he didn't want to test his persisting luck. The fire danced in an oddly rhythmic dance of spits and flickers; it could have been balefyre for all he knew, which would only be exacerbated by attempts at smothering.

Plodding shivering from the lake, the sound of wet socks squelching in shoes was offset only by the chattering of teeth. Even with their Warming Charms in place, the cold could not be entirely deflected. Or maybe it was the nerves; approaching Hagrid’s hut, nearing the wide pool and the curious heads of the hydra that poked over the edge and bared yellow fangs that gleamed in the firelight, Draco felt a chill run down his spine that had nothing to do with chilled feet.

“How are we even going to get that thing inside?” Draco spun frantically on the spot towards Harry. Now that they were here directly before the beast, their plan seemed decidedly less possible. Not to mention the very size of the hydra - it was at least as big as a hippogriff – Draco didn't even know if it had legs. Could a hydra even walk?

“We'll work it out,” Harry replied in a small voice. He didn't sound particularly confident, though seemed slightly more so than Draco felt. “Let's just get the collar on him.”

“And how do you propose we do that?” Draco wasn't sure, but he doubted the creature would turn down a meal that practically walked into its jaws. Even if said meal was a little bigger – and a little more alive – than that which it usually partook of.

Harry sucked in a shaky breath. “Um... there's fish. We could distract it?”

It seemed ludicrous. The hydra had three heads, how was feeding one of them supposed to be an adequate distraction. But even Draco had to admit that they were committed now. They were out of other options, unless seeking out Neville in the midst of the battle resounding distantly through the school was a feasible alternative. It wasn’t. Draco didn't even know if Snape had relinquished his hold on the Gryffindor Golden Boy. For all he knew, the Potions Master had spirited Neville to the other side of the country. It seemed about as likely as the two of them sitting down for a civilised conversation on Parseltongue.

Even had he been tempted to suggest another option, it was too late by any consideration. Harry had finally released his tight grasp on his forearm – it felt like it had left bruises – and had dropped to his knees before what Draco spied as being his little familiar, nearly invisible in the darkness. He rose to his feet a moment later, collar loose in his hands. It looks ridiculously small to be fitting around the neck of a water-snake monster.

“It should extend its length when you're tying it on,” Draco informed him, though he could hear the uncertainty in his own voice.

Harry only nodded in reply. Stepping towards the hydra's tub, he picked his way though discarded fish lying pale upon the night-blackened lawn. Within five feet of the creature, he stooped to scoop up a morsel. And was it Draco's imagination, or did it look like someone had taken a knife to the fish? What, they had to mutilate it before offering?

“Draco, I think... I need you to distract the other two heads.”

 _What?!_ resounded like a gong of horror through Draco's head. “W-what? How?!'

“I don't know. Sing to them if you think that would work. Feed them, maybe? Pick up a couple of fish and throw it at them?” The faint tremor to Harry's voice indicated he was more terrified than his confident, off-hand words suggested. Very likely, considering the toothy jaws snapping quietly towards him as the hydra strained its necks in an attempt to reach the fish dangling from his hand. “I'm going to tie it around the middle head - it's supposed to be the lead, but I don't...”

Draco thought he might be sick. This was an entirely different challenge to that of facing the Death Eaters. The innate fear of a predator, of a creature larger and infinitely more deadly than himself, left him quaking pathetically in his soggy boots. The heads were twice as large as his own, wide jaws hanging open expectantly and teeth sharper than the dissecting scalpels used in potions class. It was an ugly beast; blue-green scales tinged grey in the darkness, wide blank black eyes and a leathery frill that shifted as though threatening to spread on either side of it's jaw. Yet ugly as it was, it was even more intimidating. Perhaps such was accentuated by its ugliness. If Draco had known that this was what he would be facing, he wouldn't have suggested-

No. No, if he'd known, but there was no other option, he would have taken it. Or, he'd like to think he would. For the greater good and all. He was supposed to be altruistic and ‘for the Light’ now, wasn’t he?

Shaking himself from his semi-paralysed thoughts, Draco quickly crouched to scoop up a handful of fish himself. He shuddered at the sliminess of fish skin - there was a reason he didn't take Care of Magical Creatures class - and resolutely switched his gaze towards Harry. The other boy was watching him over his shoulder, and at Draco's setting of his shoulders nodded in his own readiness.

“Alright. Just do it quickly. Like a Band-Aid.”

“Like a what? Wait, what are you going to do? You can't just waltz up to it –“

“Never mind. Throw on three, Draco.” Harry stiffened in readiness, half crouching and shoulders rising in tension. “One... two... three!”

Draco was had a good throwing hand. It was probably only that which ensured the fish-bait flew anywhere near the left and right hydra heads. His heart was in his mouth and his feet already stumbling after Harry as the other boy darted towards the edge of the pool. The clap of jaws around fish and the snap of flexible bones punctuated the darkness and Draco was sure he was going to be sick, and his finger's were reaching out to grab Harry back –

The pair tumbled in a rolling heap ten feet from the edge of the pool before the hydra had even swallowed a single on of the fish. Panting, more from terror than exertion, his hands grasping Harry's shoulders, Draco engulfed him in a crushing embrace. “Are you trying to give me a heart attack?!”

“Give you a heart attack?” Harry muttered into his chest. His voice warbled but his hands were surprisingly steady as the clutched onto Draco's arms. “I think I just about gave myself one. But… at least it worked.”

“Did it?” Draco glanced up towards the hydra, to the clicking jaws as it gnawed on the last of its treat. Around the centre neck, the feather-and-apatite collar was clasped tightly. “We did it,” he breathed. “Is it working?”

Harry sat up from where he slumped against Draco, struggling slightly to gain his balance. A frown of concentration was followed a moment later by a heavy exhalation. “God, he's even harder to understand than Lyssy was at first.”

“What do you mean?”

Rubbing his head as though suffering a headache, Harry squeezed his eyes shut. “He's all over the place. I can't... it's really confusing. Maybe because he's so young? Or because he's got three brains? I'm not sure. But I might be able to... Just wait a moment.”

Draco watched as Harry dropped his chin, brow knitting and fingers pressing against his temples. A moment later he nodded. “Yes, yes I think I can do it. He's sporadic, hard to follow, but I think he might listen.”

A hiss from the pool drew their attention. Draco felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise as he turned back towards the hydra. All three heads were cocked to the side like a dog’s, to the same direction at the exact same angle. And three sets of eyes were trained directly upon them. Well, probably upon Harry, but Draco didn't like that thought anymore than he did himself being the focus of their attention.

“You think you can control it?”

Harry lifted one shoulder in a shrug. “Control would suggest too much power over the situation, I think. But I can try.”

Draco swallowed down the now familiar rise of nausea. “Alright. Lets get going, then. We've hardly got all night.”

Which, in a situation that was now becoming all too familiar to Draco, was easier said than done. The first hurdle they encountered was actually getting the hydra out of the pool. There was no gate in the wall, not even a slightly lower portion in which the creature could have been levered over. Eventually, Draco pulled his wand out and blasted a hole in the side. Which succeeded in freeing the hydra and the entirely of the contents of the water. Warming Charm or not, there was something Draco was coming to hate about being drenched to the knees.

“Hagrid's not going to be happy you broke his pool,” Harry muttered. Draco only shrugged in reply. He honestly didn't give a Niffler’s arse if the gamekeeper was happy with him or not. It hardly seemed a valid concern, given their circumstances.

Next was attempting to calm the hydra enough for it to actually comprehend the basic directions Harry was attempting to convey. Draco was partially right in his suspicions; the creature didn't have legs, exactly. Something more akin to the flippers of a seal sprouted two to a side from a surprisingly bulky body, scales in thick plates of the same blue-green with a deep violet streaking its stomach. The colours, at least, were quite pretty as they glittered in the firelight. The heavy flopping and uncoordinated shuffling of attempted locomotion, however, was not.

Draco suggested a Levitation Charm. The hydra declined. His attempt to spell the creature into the air was quickly deterred when the moment its flipper-feet left the ground the hydra loosed a piercing shriek of affront that could have rivalled a banshee. Unwilling to sacrifice his eardrums or draw further unwanted attention, Draco dropped the beast immediately. After a moment of contemplation, they were forced to settle for the painstakingly slow, shuffling wriggle of the hydra's graceless land movement.

It was actually going surprisingly well - the beast was apparently a fast learner, for after a couple of minutes of helplessly pathetic flopping it actually managed a fairly decent attempt at walking – until they reached the lake. Another tidal wave of water drenched Draco and Harry from had to toe, leaving them spluttering and gasping from the cold as, with a whistle of joy, the hydra launched itself into the water.

“Great,” Draco spat, shaking his hair free of water. “We've lost our bloody Parseltongue.”

“Hold on a second,” Harry replied, bodily shaking himself in something of a mix between a dog's shudder and a shiver of cold. “I'll try talking to him.”

Draco was immeasurably glad in that moment that it was Harry linked to the young hydra and not himself. He would have likely been yelling obscenities at the vanished hydra rather than attempting to coax it as was more likely required. They were on a schedule! People were dying. They needed help; none could afford to smile and coddle the whims of a stupid water snake.

Draco’s agitation grew the longer they waited, and he found himself glancing worriedly over his shoulder at the castle every few moments. What was happening in there? Distant sounds of fighting, of spells smacking stone and voices crying in triumph and despair, could still be heard faintly from across the grounds.

 _And here we are, waiting for a bloody hydra to get its royal arse out of the water._ Pansy and Blaise were in that castle, Ron and Hermione, Neville and Ginny. Snape, too, and even those he wasn't as close to but would still regret injured; Theodore Nott, Daphne Greengrass, Gregory Goyle and... and Vincent Crabbe. Yes, even after confronting his father in what could have been a fight to his death, Draco realised he would still grieve if anything befell the boy who used to be one of his closest friends.

It likely didn't take that long at all, though Draco felt himself counting each long second as he waited. Eventually, Harry was able to entice the hydra from the water with the promise of a visit to the Chamber of Secrets.

“I told him we're going to his cousin’s den. He seemed quite excited at the prospect.”

Draco could believe that. If a snake could smile eagerly, jaw hanging open and fangs on display, then the hydra was grinning manically. Draco made sure that he kept his distance from the flopping, awkward creature. Harry, too; Draco wouldn't have put it past his friend to sidle up to the creature and pat it fondly on one of its ungainly necks. He didn't seem even half as concerned as he had been when locking the collar around the creature’s neck. Yet to Draco, even with its uncoordinated gait and twisted, childish grin, it was still intimidating.

It was with relief that they entered the castle without approaching anyone. Still, they moved cautiously, at least until Draco had the brilliantly obvious idea to cast a Disillusionment and Muffliato Charm upon them all. Just in time, as it were, as two hallways later they froze in step when a pair of Death Eaters chased Professor Sinistra across their path. The sounds of shouting and deflected spells disappeared into the distance before either of them could urge themselves to continue.

It would have been at least an hour before they reached Moaning Myrtle's bathroom. The hydra, as it turned out, had a bit of difficulty with stairs. To be expected, Draco supposed in hindsight, but it didn't prevent him from groaning in frustration as the creature struggled up flights of stairs, heads bobbing in synchrony and tail sweeping the floor behind it in its struggle. It was almost insurmountable difficulty that Draco didn't reattempt magically lifting the creature past the numerous obstacles. He managed. Barely. For he knew that not even a Muffliato Charm could have silenced the hydra’s shriek.

Draco had never been into Moaning Myrtle's bathroom. The whining of a pubescent ghost had always been a bit of a deterrent. Surprisingly, it looked much like any other bathroom. There wasn't even a sobbing ghost hanging around to bombard unsuspecting sixth years and their pet hydras. Said hydra was left to revel freely on the tiled floor, almost as much as he appeared to enjoy whacking his tail into the sides of the stalls and nearly shake them from their foundations. It was like a playful puppy; a very big, very scaly and very dangerous puppy. Draco winced with every clatter of tail on wood.

“So, where is it? Where's the entrance?” He realised he probably should have worked this out beforehand too; the feeling of self-reprimand was also becoming painfully familiar this night.

Harry started towards the sink in reply. “When he was telling me about it, Neville said they went through an opening behind the sink. That he spoke at one sink in particular, and it opened. There should be some sort of mark on one of them. A ‘mark of Slytherin’ or something.” He flinched at a rather loud bang of tail on stall door, but didn't glance over his shoulder, instead bending to peer around the faucet.

Draco stepped forward to mimic Harry in his search. It didn't take long with two sets of eyes. “Here, Harry, this should be it.” The faint engraving of a snake etched into stained porcelain was cool under his fingers. “You want to call your oversized worm over?”

Harry rolled his eyes but obliged. The hydra scrambled towards them so fast that Draco barely had a moment to dive out of the way to avoid being crushed.

“Watch it!”

“Sorry.”

“I wasn't actually talking to you.” Draco scowled at the hydra who pointedly ignored him in favour of jabbing its blunt snouts towards the sink. A series of trills, whistles and hisses erupted around the flickering protrusion of a forked tongue. One particularly long hiss and there was a groan like old pipes flooding with water, a grate of stone on stone, and the opening to the Chamber of Secrets appeared.

It was a hole. That was it; a hole in the middle of the bathroom, surrounded by faucets. Draco barely had a chance to mentally curse his founding Head of House before the hydra, whistling and snapping its jaws in what appeared to be a victory dance, slithered forwards and threw itself down the hole. The slither of scales over slick stone walls sounded wetly with its passage, dying out to be followed moments later by a distant crunch of impact.

“And there goes our hydra. I hope we don't have to open any more doors. Do you think it's dead?”

Draco tried not to be disappointed when Harry shook his head, eyes distant. “No, he's still alive. Still going actually. Yeah, there goes another open door.” He smiled nervously towards Draco. “Come on, then.”

“What, you want to jump?”

“Don't we have magic, Draco?” Harry raised an eyebrow at him.

“Yes, but... it's probably quite a drop.”

“Then we'll catch ourselves at the bottom.”

Draco didn't have time to utter a cry of dismay as Harry took a deep breath and promptly stepped into the yawning hole. A feeble, pathetic whine passed his lips, and he scrambled to the edge. Thick blackness obscured anything below a few feet.

“Harry?!”

“It's alright. I'm alright.” Harry's voice echoed, wavering, off the walls of the tunnel. “Come on, I'll catch you if you're worried.”

“Catch me?” Draco muttered to himself. “Because I have so much faith in your magical abilities.” He knew his own words to be a lie – sporadic as they were, when Harry wanted something, he did it – but in that moment he didn't even particularly trust his own. Which wasn't to say he didn't take his own deep breath and throw himself into the tunnel before he could talk himself out of it. And no one would know he kept his eyes firmly closed for the entire fall. It was a miracle he managed to time his Levitation spell right.

The Chamber of Secrets, if that's what it was, was certainly nothing to comment on. It put Black's house to shame in terms of griminess, and Draco was fairly certain that Black wasn't partial to collecting the bones of small, half-eaten animals. Bones which crunched beneath Draco's feet as he turned in a small circle to take in the dim room illuminated by faint, ambient light.

It was cave-like in structure, though the walls appeared too smooth to be anything but man-made. Harry stood a little way into the single tunnel branching off before them, peering through the gloom towards Draco. It was too dark to make out his expression, but the proffered hand could be made out clearly enough. Draco grasped it thankfully.

“Where did our guide go?” Draco's voice rang through the tunnel with false confidence.

Harry gestured behind him. “Well, there's only one way to go, and...” He paused for a moment, tilting his head slightly as though listening. “I think he's... yes, he's in the room with the basilisk.”

“Another door? Well, I guess it's a good thing it wasn't crushed to snake-pulp on the way down.” Draco paused, considering. “The basilisk is dead, isn’t it? I mean, there's not some little baby basilisks slithering around, are there?”

Harry shook his head with a surety that was hard to disbelieve. “No, it's definitely dead.” There was something - faint amusement? - in his tone that Draco couldn’t quite grasp. He didn't comment, though, as he followed Harry's lead into the tunnel.

The carpet of bones continued the entire extent of the tunnel, up to the foot of a portal-like door that sat propped open with foreboding welcoming. Draco thought he could make out a pattern of snakes on the outside of the door and he climbed through.

The cavern inside was definitely man-made. It was illuminated by a soft, pale glow that didn't quite drive the shadows from their corners. If he were to hazard a guess, Draco would have suspected that the room in which they both stood was the actual Chamber of Secrets. It was a long hall of a room, larger than the Great Hall, with ceilings higher still. At the distant end, a grim-faced statue, large-than life, protruded half-carved from the wall, glaring at their intrusion. The pale stone glistened with dampness on every surface.

A moat-like pool of water surrounded the walls, not deep enough to reach the knees but enough to leave Draco sighing at drowning his shoes once more. His complaints dried up, however, at the sight of the hydra _frolicking_ in the centre of the room around a twining arrangement of stones.

No, not stones. “Is that... the basilisk skeleton?”

Harry nodded hesitantly. His eyes were peeled wide open in awe. “It must have been enormous.”

An apt description, Draco conceded. The hydra could have fit quite easily between the giant snake's jaws. Not that the bounding creature seemed to be fazed by the prospect. Rather the opposite, in fact. As they watched, the hydra flopped around to the skeleton's side, darted all of its heads out to grasp a single rib between its jaws, and yanked the bone loose. Draco flinched at the echoing snap.

“Lovely,” he muttered in distaste. “What a way to greet a distant cousin.”

“Yeah, I'm pretty sure it's dead.” Draco glared at Harry who seemed to be fighting back a smile. A smile in the worst of circumstances. Incredible.

Harry ignored him. Stepping forwards, his amusement faded. “So we just take a fang? And stab the Horcrux?” His gaze dropped down to the locket’s chain still wrapped around his wrist. Fingers picked at the latch for a moment before he paused. “I think this might be locked shut, too.”

Draco stepped to his side, running his own nail into the groove of opening. It didn't budge. “It doesn't have a keyhole or anything. Do you think...?”

Nodding, Harry looked towards the hydra at the end of the room. It gnawed with a _snick_ of teeth on the rib like a dog worrying a bone. “Maybe Parseltongue again?” Draco could only shrug in reply.

The hydra had made yanking the rib from the skeleton look easy. Draco found that, rather to the contrary, the basilisk's tooth was very firmly attached. His difficulty likely had as much to do with his uneasiness in touching the vessel of a deadly poison as anything. Finally, with Harry’s help, they wriggled the bone loose. A hollow pop rang through the room like a burst bubble as the tooth disconnected.

Falling down onto his knees on the ground, Harry splayed his hands either side of the locket. Draco similarly dropped to his knees beside him, the tooth hefted high in his hand. They met eyes nervously over the glittering gold jewellery, the ornate snake seeming to writhe upon its surface.

“Whenever you're ready,” Draco murmured.

Jerking his head in a nod, Harry cast a glance over his shoulder at the hydra. The creature froze in its gnawing as though poked into attentiveness and slowly shifted all eyes towards them. It was disconcerting to watch the paddling propulsion of the snake-like beast across the floor. It seemed to move more easily on the wet stone.

Barely three feet away, it paused, beady black eyes flicking between Harry and the locket. Harry swallowed audibly, then, maintaining eye contact, tapped the floor beside the Horcrux deliberately with his forefinger. The soft rap of nails on stone set Draco's teeth on edge.

But it worked, whatever communication it was. A moment later, a synchronous hiss slithered from the hydra's three heads, tongues darting out to taste the air and ringing with command. Flicking his eyes down to the locket, Draco just had time to glimpse the locket window flip open before he was nearly thrown across the room.

It was like a physical blow.

A hurricane.

An assault of enraged storm sprites.

The explosive wind that seemed to come directly from the Horcrux scattered droplets of water from the floor, the walls, the moat. With a roaring crash, it with swept up with gale-like gale force, thrown spinning around the room. Dropping to the floor, Draco squinted his eyes, hunching his shoulders from the vicious bite of icy water. It speared like spat projectiles, striking at any bared skin.

Peering through the visible tears of wind, he could just make out Harry similarly pressed to the ground. The hydra appeared to have fled; it was nowhere in sight. The rush of the wind throughout the cavern howled like a caged beast. In it's fury, it sucked the moat into the air in a glistening waterfall that curtained the walls. As he watched, imprisoned to the floor, it snuck watery digits across the roof, enclosing the chamber in a dome of water. The biting chill of the cocoon struck Draco to his bones.

And at the very centre of it all, the locket spewed forth wisps of ghostly light. Like wraiths, tendrils of pale ribbon clawed from miniscule, gaping window, tumbling drunkenly to the floor and pooling in a fog of blinding brightness.

Draco was captivated. Though crushed to the ground by the vicious grasp of the wind, he managed to tilt his head up just high enough to make out the morphing shapes of the light. And those shapes, impossibly solid wind, drew his breath away. He knew what he should be doing – he did recall the reason for penetrating the depths of the Chamber of Secrets – yet he was spellbound.

For from the fluid lines of light, quite unshaken by the force of the surrounding wind, was his father. Draco would recognise the man anywhere, even afforded but a glimpse. He had more than a glimpse now. Though ghost-like in pallor, monochromatically clad in grey robes, Lucius Malfoy's face was unforgettable.

“What are you doing, boy?”

The voice was cold, clipped. It sent a shiver through Draco's shoulders. Opening his mouth to speak, his uttered barely a mew before his father continued.

“Is this what I taught you? How I raised you? Are you a fool, boy?”

Draco was at a loss. The icy tones of Lucius' voice struck him like a physical blow, but worse than that, it was familiar. The tones of carefully considered anger, of deep disappointment. He’d heard it before in his childhood, though rarely, and it had left him aching with shame each time.

Urging his voice into action, Draco uttered a feeble query. “What do you mean?”

“The man who killed me, Draco. Why do you fight him?”

“What do you -? He killed you, of course I'm going to –“

“Then you are a fool. Foolish, ignorant, mindless.” At each word, Draco flinched further from his father's gaze. “You should have learned from my sacrifice. Learned where your loyalties should have lain.”

“But he killed you, Father,” Draco whispered, his voice barely audible. “How could I ever -?”

“Idiot boy. It is because of the very nature of my death that you should have sought sanctuary with the stronger side. And now? Who will protect you? Who will save you?” The sneer in his father's voice was all too familiar; Draco had seen it time and time before, though never directed towards him. Never. And he’d never wanted it to be. “The old man is dead. The Order will follow him shortly after. The side of the Light shall fall this very night. And what do you do? You strive to blatantly show your loyalty.”

Draco squeezed his eyes shut at the hissing tone. The wind grazed his face painfully, splattering wetness across his cheeks. It was only when he registered faint warmth on his icy skin that he realised tears had joined to coldness.

“I'm sorry, Father. I'm sorry, I didn't mean –“

“Foolish child. I was naive to think I had taught you well. Who could claim the name Malfoy when they fail to understand the basics of self-preservation?”

“I'm sorry, I'm so sorry...”

From the corner of his downcast eyes, Draco could see the pale figure of his father step slowly towards him. The snake-head cane, that familiar length of ebony wood that Lucius had discarded but months before, swung before him like a baton. The wailing wind seemed to cry a warning.

He knew this. Draco recalled this. He'd been struck by his father before, by that thin rod of dark wood. Never anything lasting, and only once or twice, but the memory was still strong. It had never really hurt, but the fear still remained. The fear of the knowledge of his father’s disappointment. Always, always...

“...co... Draco, please... listen to me!”

The faint cry was nearly lost in the wind, but somehow it still made it to Draco's ears. Blinking through the film of tears, squinting past the approaching figure of his father, Draco could just make out the prone form of Harry on the other side of the locket. Matted braid drenched, the glasses fallen from his face. His cheeks were nearly as pale as Draco’s father’s. He squinted towards Draco through the visible ribbons of wind, teeth clenched in something like a snarl and eyes pleading.

“...please...”

In that moment, reason seemed to settle it's sturdy fingers upon the world once more. The figure of Lucius still strode towards him, but Draco could perceive it for what it was. He should have known, as soon as the apparition had raised its cane. His father had never struck him in disappointment, not truly. The stinging reprimands had been when the man was near frantic with fear, fear for the welfare of a son who had strayed from safety.

Tears continued to blur Draco's eyes, stinging in the whipping wind. Yet even so, he fastened his grip upon the tooth in his hand and lurched into motion. Tumbled through the ghost of his father, through the force of the clawing gale, and with a swing of his arm he smashed the sharpened bone into the locket.

The sound of a thousand mirrors shattering ruptured into the air. An impossible force gripped Draco thrusting hand, urging him to release the tooth, but he kept on, leaning into the stab. A wail like a dying scream gurgled from the pierced window, enduring and without breath. On, and on, and on. Until finally, with an audible sigh, everything stopped.

The wind dropped. The pressure on Draco’s wrist released, nearly causing him to fall flat on his face. And overhead, the dome of water lost its tension and crashed down. Right onto Draco's head.

It was like submerging into the Black Lake in the middle of winter. The air rushed from Draco's lungs as the waterfall attempted to drown him, before coursing over him and tumbling to the floor an instant later. Swaying, unbalanced Draco blinked the water from his eyes gasping in heavy pants, and struggled to raise his head towards Harry.

The other boy looked like a mess on hands and knees in the middle of the floor. He'd gotten as drowned as Draco, and looked to be garbed in a sodden costume of dripping jeans and sagging jumper. His fringe nearly covered his entire face, slapping limply against his forehead as frozen finger flipped it from his eyes. They peered widely at Draco, his mouth opened in a small 'O' of surprise.

It was comical, really. Harry's expression, the sudden downpour - even if it did mean Draco had to resign himself to the inevitability of being uncomfortably wet for the third time in as many hours. It all seemed to hit him in a wave of hysterical giggles, and before he knew it, Draco was gasping on his knees, forehead dropped to the ground, shaking in unsuppressed laughter.

It was almost as much coughing as chuckling, but Draco hardly cared. They'd destroyed the locket; they'd actually done it. And except for being a little more bedraggled than before, they'd survived none the worse for wear. It seemed impossible, a miracle. The relief was so encompassing that he couldn't contain his laughter even if he'd wanted to.

And in the brief pause, when gasping for breath, he heard it. An echo to his laughter, equally breathy and tinged with hysteria. Glancing towards Harry, for the first time ever he watched as the other boy trembled in a fit of laughter. He actually laughed. Full body, uncontrollable giggles, struggling for breath as he fought the tides of amusement spreading visibly across his face. And sodden and exhausted though he was, Draco had never seen anything more beautiful in his life.

Draco was across the room before he was aware of it, dragging Harry into his arms. Wrapping his arms around Harry's shoulders, Draco tugged him towards himself and drowned him in a kiss of utter adoration.

They'd been struggling for breath before; perhaps such a devouring exchange was not the most well-thought out response Draco could have had. Gasping at each other’s breathe, near frantic as they clasped hands to shoulders, fingers clawing desperately as they struggling to draw each other closer. Yet even as they gasped against each other's lips, tongues pressed together and coiling in a frantic dance, teeth clicking and sucking, Draco wouldn't have stopped for the world.

When they finally broke apart, Draco slumped against Harry as much as Harry grasped at him to remain upright. They sagged in weary release, cheek to cheek, panting in tandem and nearly sinking into puddles of exhaustion. And could have stayed there, shivering slightly, holding one another, for the rest of the night, had they not been interrupted.

A horrifying, repulsive interruption.

If Draco were to describe it, he would have said that the voice that seeped into his thoughts was like oil; smooth and thick and pungent, pervading every corner of his mind. A convulsive tremor shook him as each word.

" _I know that you are preparing to fight._

_“Your efforts are futile. You cannot fight me. I do not want to kill you. I have great respect for the teachers of Hogwarts. I do not want to spill magical blood._

_“Give me Neville Longbottom, and none shall be harmed._

_“Give me Neville Longbottom, and I shall leave the school untouched._

_“Give me Neville Longbottom, and you will be rewarded._

_“You have until midnight."_

At some point, Draco and Harry had pulled away from each other. Just slightly, just enough to lock eyes. All trace of laughter had disappeared. Draco didn't think he could have uttered a gasp of amusement had he wanted to.

And he certainly didn't want to. Laughter was about the furthest thing from his mind.


	29. When The Time Comes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, I can't thank those beautiful, wonderful commenters enough. I squeal like a fangirl every time I get a message buzz in; it's the best feeling in the world!  
> For this chapter, I'd just like to add a few forewarnings; 1) this does contain direct quotations from DH. and 2) WARNING: minor character death upon the horizon. Beware.  
> I hope you enjoy. Please, if you have a chance, leave a word or two to tell me what you think. It's really, really appreciated.

Escaping the Chamber of Secrets was easier than it had any right to be. Granted, the disappearance of Squirt probably had more to do it than anything else; since the Horcrux had erupted he’d vanished without a trace. Harry hadn’t even seen where he’d gone and could only hope for Hagrid’s sake that the hydra was alright.

Still, Harry highly doubted they would have made it up the vertical walls of the tunnel without the assistance of magic. There was something to be said for Levitation Charms.

In spite of his natural scepticism, Harry usual disbelief of the theoretical validity of such charms barely raised comment. The ringing words, projected straight into his mind, left him feeling cold and numb, a chill seeping through his gut. Yet it was the ultimatum that rang most resoundingly.

_“Give me Neville Longbottom…”_

The fear for Harry’s friend rose and overwhelmed the triumph of destroying the Horcrux, the euphoria that had flooded him and spurred his and Draco’s brief and frantic response. And besides that fear was the growing worry that Neville would do something stupid. It was too like his Gryffindor friend to walk into the situation without eliminating every other possibility; self-sacrifice was an innate part of his character, Harry knew. It persisted even through his own fear.

Hogwarts was in ruins. Walls were crumbling and dust layered the floor. The scorched outlines of a vicious curses and explosions stained the ageing stone. Windows were shattered and statues bowed beneath the weight of the attacks upon them. The destruction only became more ruinous the further Harry and Draco progressed to the heart of the castle. The hallways were empty of Death Eaters and defenders alike, not a student to be seen, yet like a fish reeled in on a line, Harry felt himself drawn to the Great Hall with the certainty that it was their destination.

The doors hung off their hinges like a broken branch dangling from a tree.

Inside the atmosphere was muted. Professors, Order members and students leaned heavily against one another, or wandered with the listless slowness of wading through quicksand between their fellows. There was little ruin to the actual room; unlike the explosions inflicted upon the walls of the anteroom they had been led to through the staff corridor, there was barely a scratch or streak of soot marring the wall.

No, in the Great Hall the damage seemed to be solely inflicted upon the room’s occupants. The ambient light of magic and the candles overhead illuminated the sorry scene of bowed heads, drooping eyelids and wrinkled brows, darkening dusty discolouration of dirt over pale skin and brightening the rustty redness of drying blood. The scattering of such ruddy adornments was far more frequent than Harry had hoped to find. Barely one person amongst a dozen was free of some injury or another.

Walking into the room slowly, as though unwilling to disrupt the stagnating exhaustion and stale fear, Harry and Draco searched for familiar faces amongst the crowd. Madam Pomfrey appeared to have taken the seriously injured in her trembling hands hand; conjured bandages and muttered Healing Charms wafted around her like the sterilised scent of medicine. Children and adults alike with their arms in slings, a patch on their heads, the left over stain of blood on a cheek split open and oozing redness, lined the walls. Just as many had heaved themselves onto the house tables as lay slumped on the pews, moaning, crying and muttering their grief and disbelief. Yet it was those that occupied the centre of the room, the widened walkway between the two central tables, that drew the eye like a moth to fluorescent light.

Bodies. Bodies lined the hall like speed bumps along a highway. There had been an attempt at neatness, but little could be done to make such a scene any less horrifying. The sheer number of prone figures waylaid any attempt. There were dozens.

Some were covered in sheets. Some simply laid gently atop their sheets, blankets bunched around them in a tender cocoon. Everywhere Harry looked, he saw a slack face, a limp arm, a head crooked upon a loose neck.

Harry and Draco picked their way slowly in between the figures, like so many others commiserating over the dead. Sobs, muffled against sweater sleeves, added an aching discord to the moans of pain from the injured. Yet perhaps the saddest part was that not every body had a mourner. Some simply lay there, alone, all but forgotten; there were simply too many.

Progressing down the length of the hall, Harry could discern both familiar and unfamiliar faces. He felt his eyes grow larger with every unconscious flinch, every flicker of memory as he met the closed eyes of a pale face and was assaulted with the memory of a scowl, a smile, the sound of idle chatter. Within the space of as many steps he wove through the bodies of Alastor Moody, Dedalus Diggle, that girl Ron had a brief stint with Lavender Brown, Neville’s eternal fan Colin Creevey, Susan Bones from Magical Creatures. There was that girl from the year above, a Ravenclaw who had shown him the way around the library in his first week. Twins identified as being Hufflepuff from their stained ties lay side by side. There was an unknown Order member with half of his robe torn askew. Bodies after bodies, each as limp, as unmoving and as coldly pale as the last.

Halfway down the room, Harry happened a glance upwards to behold the immobile figures of Neville and Ginny standing but three paces away. There was tension in every line of their body, so tight that they trembled with the strain of a pair of bowstrings. Tapping Draco’s hand, drawing his attention to follow him, Harry picked his way over to their side. It was marginally easier to do so when he forced himself to overlook that it was bodies he was stepping over.

Harry's heart sank when he fell into place by Neville's side. His eyes dropped, following the twin line of sight of his friends’, and the figure of Frank Longbottom swum into view. His face was lax, cheeks sagging slightly. The smoothness of his brow bellied the downturn of his lips. A blanket appeared flung with half a mind over his lower half. He looked in the depths of sleep, albeit a disagreeable one. Harry only got a brief glimpse, however, before the face blurred out of focus. It took him a moment to realise that it was tears clouding his vision.

Blinking rapidly, Harry glanced towards Neville once more. His friend’s face held less expression than his father's, yet even so, there was a flatness, a rigidity, to the emotionless plains of his face that bespoke pain lurking just beneath the surface. His eyes were locked on his father's face, though their glassiness indicated he barely saw that which he gazed upon. It was heartbreaking to witness.

“Neville...” Harry didn't know why he had spoken; some unconscious plea to attempt to alleviate his friend’s pain, despite Harry's own natural inclination towards silence. He knew nothing he could say would help, and so paused as soon as he had spoken. Neville flinched slightly at the words, but didn't glance towards him. He appeared only to sink further into grief. The faint tremble of his shoulders was enough to still any further attempts at conversation on Harry's part.

Ginny, staring with similar glassiness at Mr. Longbottom, slowly untucked her fingers from Neville's. With that same slow motion that seemed to have gripped everyone in the hall, she stepped hesitantly towards the dead man’s side. In jarring motions, Ginny sunk to her knees. She reached a hand out slowly, hesitantly, and in a moment of finality, tugged the blanket over his head. Harry wasn't sure if the sight of the sheet-draped figure was better or worse than that of the man.

The veiling seemed to snap the spell Neville had fallen under. Jerking backwards as though stung, he stumbled half a step backwards and, after a moment's pause, wheeled around and strode from the hall. Watching him depart, Harry was distantly surprised that he managed as much without stepping on someone. He disappeared through the hanging doors of the Great Hall moments later.

Ginny was on her feet and following after him within seconds and Harry was on the verge of following her until he noticed Draco. Or more accurately, where Draco was heading. In contrast to the slowness of those around him, the Slytherin nearly ran across the hall. He slowed only when he nearly skidded to a stop before...

_Oh no. Please, God, no, please no...._

Harry was not a religious person, but he would pray to any God that spared him a second thought if it would save him from the reality of what he saw. Unlike Draco, he made his way slowly to the dead student surrounded by the ring of his friends.

_Please no, please no..._

Pansy was cradled in Blaise's arms. There was not any injury in particular to be seen, but the wide-eyed staring of her eyes was indication enough. A single, pale hand extended from the soot-stained warmth of Blaise's lap; it looked horribly cold, fingers half-curled on the marble floor.

Blaise was even more expressionless than Neville had been. He lacked even the tension in his shoulders; rather, the hunching of his back and the drop of his chin gave him the appearance of a marionette with half of its strings cut. One hand stroked absently at the back of Pansy's head, the other gently wrapped around her shoulders. He could have been rocking her to sleep. Except that he wasn't.

Hermione was crying. Ron looked to be on the verge of joining her. Draco was nearly as blank-faced as Blaise, save for the straining clench of his jaw, the faint glaze of his eyes. He stared down at his friend as though he couldn't possibly tear his gaze away. He likely couldn't.

Harry cried. He couldn't help himself. The weight in his chest needed an outlet and though the dribbling flow down his cheeks didn't do much to help it was easier than quashing it down. So he cried, softly and quietly, as the sounds of grief around him became a distant echo of inconsequence.

Because Pansy was dead. She was dead, and it was final. Harry didn't even know how it happened, when it happened. That thought itself sat accusingly forthright in his mind, for whatever reason utterly important.

And there was absolutely nothing he could do about it.

At some point, he drew Draco into his arms. The shared warmth between them did little to melt the coldness seeping through him, sending a shiver over the surface of his skin, but it helped. If only a little. Draco didn't cry, not like Harry did, but his grief was apparent nonetheless in the clawing grasp of his hands, in the weight of his forehead as is fell against Harry's own, in the quiet rasping of his breath. He seemed physically pained, and Harry couldn't exactly deny such a possibility. His own pain felt like a literal piercing of his chest. It was hard to breathe.

He wasn't sure how long they remained holding one another. Time was difficult to discern when in the midst of grief. He was vaguely aware of the weariness of his legs, but such weariness seemed negligible in comparison to greater hurts. Because Pansy was dead - _dead_ \- and nothing could compare to that.

Eventually, however, a voice pierced through the fogginess of his heavy thoughts.

“Have you seen Neville?”

Raising his head from Draco's, Harry slowly turned his attention towards Ginny. Ron's younger sister looked exhausted; redness rimmed her eyes, eyes that visibly sagged, and the lines on her face aged her by years. Her uniform were darkened by dirt, obscuring the vivid redness at the cuffs and tie. Even her vibrant hair hung lank and lacklustre. She looked like a survivor of war - appropriately enough.

“Neville?” Draco's voice was a choked crackle. He cleared his throat with an effort. “He was with you, wasn't he?”

Ginny was staring at Pansy, renewed sorrow weighing further on her features, but at Draco's words she dragged her attention back to their conversation. “I was, but he said he wanted to be alone. To think.” She shook her head. “But that was nearly an hour ago, and I haven't seen him since.”

“Did he say where he was going?”

She shook her head again. “Just somewhere to think. I thought I'd leave him to himself, you know. Because of his father's –“ Cutting herself off abruptly, Ginny's eyes fell to Pansy once more. “Never mind. I'll... I'll look for him.” With a hasty backwards step, she spun on her heel and raced from the Great Hall.

Harry watched her go, his mind turning sluggishly. It took minutes for the words to fully register. “Neville's missing?” Somehow, even through the blanket of grief, focus reasserted itself on his mind. Focus and gradually growing horror. He raised his eyes to Draco's face, staring upon the frowning profile as his friend continued to gaze upon the absence of Ginny's passage. “Draco, you don't think...?”

That was when he heard it. The voice didn't echo in Harry's mind as it had before, but he would have recognised it anywhere. Booming as though through a megaphone, the words rang through the hall.

“Neville Longbottom is dead! He was killed as he ran away, trying to save himself while you lay down your lives for him. We bring you his body as proof that your hero is gone.”

Harry felt a splash of cold shock ripple through him, cascading over his shoulders and leaving a tremble in its wake. _No, no,_ no, _please no, not now, I can't -_

“The battle is won. You have lost half of your fighters. My Death Eaters outnumber you and the Boy Who Lived is finished. There must be no more war. Anyone who continues to resist, man, woman or child, will be slaughtered, as well as every member of their family. Come out of the castle now, kneel before me, and you shall be spared. Your parents and children, your brothers and sisters will live, and be forgiven, and you will join me in the new world we shall build together.”

The echo of the announcement seemed to hang over the masses in the Great Hall. Faces turned upwards, outwards, turned towards the front of the school and the promise that lay beyond. Eyes widened in horror, mouths falling open, stricken. Movement seemed impossible.

McGonagall was the one who broke the stasis. Only the paleness of her cheeks indicated any fear on her part as she strode from the room. When the sweep of her dark robes disappeared through the door, the entire mobile cohort of the Great Hall defenders seemed to flow into action at once. Caught as though in a current, Harry felt himself swept along with his friends from the walls of the castle. The spilled into the courtyard before the school like a tributary flowing into its larger cousin.

“NO!”

Her voice was horrifying to bear witness to. If a sound could be labelled as pure Despair, McGonagall produced it seamlessly. When Harry's gaze trained on the Death Eaters, upon Hagrid, upon the cause of her distress, only the constriction of his throat stoppered him from releasing a similar cry. Ron, Hermione and Ginny were not so impeded.

“No!”

“No!”

“Neville! _Neville!'_

It was painful to hear, almost as painful to see Neville's prone form cradled in Hagrid's arms. He looked pathetically small beside the half-giant and horribly still; it was heartbreaking. Harry hadn’t thought that the pain consuming his chest could possibly swell any further, but somehow, upon seeing Neville, it ballooned once more.

 _Not Neville, too... How could he...? Why did he...? So_ stupid, _why had Neville done it? How could he have been so foolish?_

Why was this happening? What had any of them done to deserve this? For it seemed impossible. Destruction and misery inflicted on such a gross scale simply did not happen. Death of such immensity was a distant and foreign menace, but would never be realised by Harry. He'd never believed it possible to feel such pain for another person; he’d simply never cared for anyone enough to let whatever had hurt them impact him. It was in that moment that he realised what his friends truly meant to him.

Such a realisation could not have come at a worse moment.

The cries of despair rose on mass from adults and children alike as they flooded through the doors of the castle. Bathed in the illuminating yellow light streaming through the wide-flung doors, they assembled in a sad parody of a concert with the Death Eaters the main event. And at the head of the Death Eaters –

“SILENCE!”

A bang and a flash of bright light burst like fireworks overhead, painfully bright in the darkness of night. The voice, amplified with magic, sliced through the noise and smothered it like a scream thrust underwater. Fear, however much the onlookers fought it, was impossible to deny. The speaker drew all eyes like a magnet.

He was like nothing Harry had ever seen before. Physical disabilities were one thing, yet never unfamiliar and horrifying in a way that the creature before them was horribly morphed and twisted. Draped in a thin black curtain of robes, the man's pallor contrasted with sickly paleness. White, translucent skin clearly showed a network of purple and blue veins on his hairless skull, a skull made more bulbous than it already was in its bareness. The face was skewed into a sick hybrid of man and snake; flattened and angular, he was noseless and lipless. The eyes, peeled wide and nearly lidless, skimmed over each figure in attendance, flashing in a luminescent red. The thin smile that spread across his face, in tandem with the raising of his wand in a skeletal, spider-like fingers, was terrifying.

“You see?” The man swept before his horde of followers, before Neville's body and a sobbing Hagrid, pacing like a caged tiger. “Neville Longbottom is dead! Do you understand now, deluded ones? He was nothing, ever, but a boy who relied on others to sacrifice themselves for him.”

“He beat you!” Ron's yell split the silence. Just as well, for Harry felt that if the red-haired boy hadn't then he would have. A crashing wave of anger, unprecedented and only intensified by his grief, roared through him. He felt a growl on his lips, one which was echoed by the rising yells and screams of objection that followed Ron's lead. It was satisfying to realise that not a one in the crowd believed the snake-man's words.

Another bang and flash of light and the voices snapped off once more. Not with magic but simply cringing from the explosion of heat overhead. “He was killed while trying to sneak out of the castle grounds.” Malicious cruelty twisted the man's voice, revealing the lie for what it was had any been foolish enough to believe it. “Killed while trying to save himself –“

A shield flashed into existence a split second before a blast of white light would have impacted the pacing man. The afterimage flared enduringly before Harry's eyes, so it was only after moments of rapid blinking that he realised what had happened.

Standing before them all, further forwards even than McGonagall, Draco brandished his wand. Harry couldn't see his face, but from his wide-footed stance, the set of his shoulders and the tilt of his head, it was clear that fury longed to burst forth.

“How dare you.”

It would have taken courage, Harry knew, to speak such words in the face of the man who haunted his dreams, but Draco lacked none of that. His anger seemed to have overrun the twinge of common sense that encouraged self-preservation. It was probably fuelled by the supportive growls behind him.

“Draco? My dear boy, Draco. How wonderful to see you once more.” That cruel smile twisted the snake-man's face once more. For all his claim of satisfaction, there was a hard, unforgiving glint in his eyes. “And what do you think you are doing?”

“Something I should have done a long time ago.” Draco's voice rang clear and cold through the darkness. The strength of his tone was incredible. Harry felt himself stepping forwards, drawn not only by his desire to protect Draco but also magnetised to his words. “There's no way that anyone here is kneeling to you, Voldemort. Not tonight.”

The Death Eaters hissed in fury. One woman, crazed eyes wide and matted hair flying as she lurched forward, brandished her wand before her like a sword. “You pathetic, snivelling worm. Draco, I should have known you would carry your mother's weakness.”

It was too much for Draco. Harry saw it coming and flung himself forwards the few steps that lay between them, grabbing Draco to him in a tug that nearly threw them both from their feet. He was just in time, somehow throwing up a shield moments after Draco cast a glowing red spell towards the crazed woman, moments before a green light flashed back towards him. A splatter of sparks rebounded with a jarring force that caused Harry to wince as his temples throbbed painfully. He felt like he’d been struck himself.

Then, everything seemed to happen at once.

* * *

It was strange, really, how a single exchange of spells could trigger a battle. In the moments that followed his aunt's attempt on his life, Draco's world turned upside down. It probably had something to do with the trembling of the ground that cast him flat on his back, but a lot more to do with the fight that ensued.

The giants had returned. That much was apparent. But what was also apparent was the return of the centaurs, and what appeared to be giant spiders flowing in a dark tsunami from the Forbidden Forest. Like a wave breaking upon the shore, the swarm of magical creatures fell upon the humans, defenders and Death Eaters alike.

Spells soared overhead in an attempt to protect, to shield. They were marginally successful, but cries of fear and pain still rung through the night. Draco cringed upon himself, grasping the only two things that mattered to him in that moment in each hand: his wand and Harry's hand.

He didn't know what had made him leap forward, urging him to yell his denial of the Dark Lords – of Voldemort's – claims. He couldn't help it; he'd just been so angry, so distraught, his eyes unseeing of anything save Neville's limp figure hung in Hagrid's cradling arms.

In hindsight, seeing the aftereffects of such a show of denial, it probably wasn't the wisest decision he could have made. The ground trembled like an earthquake beneath him, and bodies danced around him so closely that Draco was surprised he hadn't been trodden on. Someone - McGonagall? - appeared to have called for a retreat into the safety of the castle for there was a general movement towards that direction. Feeling a tug on his hand, Draco squinted through the haze of darkness, sporadic lighting and racing bodies to Harry above him.

Somehow the other boy had reattained his footing. His face was a mask of determination, devoid of the misery that had hung upon it but moments before. And he was tugging, insistent, upon Draco's hand. “Come on! We have to move or we'll get –“

He didn't get a chance to finish. Luckily, Draco had already lurched to his feet, as a second later an impossibly large foot impacted the ground where he had been sprawled. On weaving feet, he followed Harry's own stumbling form. It would have been impossible to see him, to follow him, had they not been joined at the wrist.

The castle was a battlefield. Spells shot erratically the length of the room, fired from both sides with equal intensity. Draco realised with morbid satisfaction that even the students were fighting back. Doing well, too, if the impact of Expelliarmus and Stupefies were any indication. Perhaps Neville's DA lessons had been beneficial after all.

Concentrating on avoiding spells was difficult, but at least there was no assault from giants. At some point, halfway across the hall, Harry paused in his flight to fling up a shield charm with a raised hadn and slaying fingers. A trio of spells fired towards them rebounded in a scatter of multi-coloured light. Any further forward movement ceased at that, stuttering to halt. Draco turned to face possible assailants head on. He was aware only of the flicker of spells and the warmth of Harry at his back as he fired a curse at the head of a passing Death Eater.

It was manic. Draco fired off more spells than he could count, and nearly fell victim to just as many. Chance dodges were as responsible for his continued existence as Harry's shields were. As he launched spell after spell, he caught glimpses of the surrounding battles like snapshots from a camera.

Black firing spell after spell at a faceless Death Eater as the man stumbled backwards from the assault.

A trio of first years falling behind an overturned table as Yaxley laughed and launched an Incendio at them.

His aunt facing off against a portly woman - was the Weasley matriarch? - and cackling manically.

Bursts of fire, of light, of buffeting air, each passing around him and just barely missing contact. He chanced a glimpse of Theodore Nott taking a hit and felt a blow strike him in the chest where no spell had hit. Another blow landed as he caught sight of Hermione's determined, dirt-smudged face as she tugged a limp, lolling Ron across the room, firing a spell over her shoulder as she went. People fell and some rose once more, friend and foe alike. Many didn't.

That was until a shockwave rippled through the fighting, blasting figures from the centre of the room and casting them like discarded toys to the perimeter. Draco felt his feet sweep out from under him, felt a force like the heave of a giant's breath propel him head-over-heels into one of the benches of the Great Hall. For a moment all he could see was the floor in front of his nose.

Harry. Where was Harry? The thought was the first that made sense, urging him into action. It was the only thing that mattered, the only thing of importance, and it broke through the scream of pain in his shoulder that begged him to freeze in pitiful stillness.

That was until his dragged himself to lean heavily on the overturned bench and caught sight of the stand off before him. The centre of the room had been cleared in a stage set for a performance. The previous fighters lined the walls like an audience. And in the very centre... It was impossible, should have been impossible, but there it was. Voldemort, arms spread and wand extended, facing off against Neville, very much alive.

Exclamations of “HE'S ALIVE” and cries of relief blossomed throughout the hall. Draco felt his own mind short circuit, locking upon that one simple fact. Neville's voice was the only thing that could have quelled the onlookers into silence.

“I don't want anyone else to try to help.” His face was determined, a frown impressing his brow. “You're not going to hurt anyone else, Voldemort.”

Voldemort sneered, though the ugly curl of his lip didn't quite mask his disbelief, the faint tinge of... fear. “You don't mean that. That isn't how you work, is it? Always hiding behind others, shielding yourself –“

“Not anymore,” Neville broke in, cutting across Voldemort's words with savage force. “I won't do that anymore. No one else will die for me. So it's just you and me, Voldemort.”

“You really expect to survive a fight against me.”

Incredibly, Neville smiled. It was only a small smile, yet Draco felt a wave of confidence well within him. “I have before. I'll do it again.”

The pale, snake-like face twitched slightly. Yes, it was definitely fear in his eyes. Impossibly, the most dangerous creature in Wizarding Britain, possibly the entire world, was quaking before a boy not yet seventeen. As though to allay any beliefs of his own fear, the man hissed, raising his wand further. “You honestly believe you have a chance. To what, save your little friends? How pathetic.”

“More pathetic than grasping at immortality through the deaths of innocent victims?” Neville shook his head, snorting as if it were a fine joke. “I don't think so.” When he affixed his gaze once more, Draco could see a hardness instilled in his eyes. It was merciless.

It happened so fast that the pair could have been moving with magical speed. In the space of a split second, Neville raised his wand, uttered an Expelliarmus. Voldemort spat viciously in the same instant, and a flash of green raced forwards to meet the starburst of red. With a collision like a statue’s head launched into the castle walls and twice as loud, the duel streams impacted.

Beams of light throbbed from the point of contact. Draco had to squint his eyes or else turn from the sight to save himself from blindness. But more than that was the physical force that rippled from the collision, greater even than the sound of magic impacting like the clap of cymbals. With the force of distorted gravity, an undeniable weight forced Draco to the floor once more. His limbs felt heavy, impossible to lift, and a muffler seemed to press down upon his magic.

Before his eyes, the figures of Neville and Voldemort trembled beneath the force of their magical fight. A ribbon of light, fading from red to an electric sun of yellow at the point of contact and finally to green, extended between them. Teeth bared and eyes narrowed, the both somehow miraculously retained their feet, even through the crushing weight of the rippling magical effects. As Draco looked, it seemed as though the fight would endure eternally. At least until, slowly but surely, Neville seemed to fold before his opponent.

In that moment, Draco knew he had to do something. Neville - his friend, Neville; the boy who had died and somehow returned to face an evil madman - couldn't face this impossible foe on his own. He’d tried, but their levels of experience, of strength acquired from years of honing abilities, differed just too greatly. If he didn't do something...

Like paddling through gelatinous custard, Draco struggled to raise his wand hand. Every muscle in his arm screamed to drop to the floor, but he clenched his teeth and pointed his wand towards Voldemort. If he could only distract him, only for a moment –

His spell fired, arcing towards the bald, translucent head of the snake-man. Only to dissolve in a shimmer of white light reminiscent of violently scattered dandelion seeds within two feet. Those red eyes of the monster didn't even turn, didn't spare a moment's notice for the attack from the side.

Draco's spell appeared to be a catalyst for the onlooker's response. Spells fired towards Voldemort - and some towards Neville too, assumingly from the remaining Death Eaters - yet each dissipated before contact. Draco slowly realised that it wasn't an impossible defence from Voldemort; the spells simply couldn't penetrate the cocooning walls of intense magic. Perhaps it was the sheer magnitude of magical power exchanged, but each external blast, each attempt to interrupt the battle ongoing, disintegrated before it could even penetrate.

Another attempt from Draco ended in a ridiculously pathetic shower of sparks before he could do nothing but slump to the ground in sheer exhaustion. His head throbbed from the light, from the glass-shattering ring of spell-on-spell, pounding with a steady, demanding beat. Yet through it all, he wouldn't turn away. A heartbreaking effort, as before his eyes he witnessed Neville sinking further and further to the ground.

Too strong... he, Voldemort, was too strong. Maybe they should have known better than to try...

Yet however Draco considered it, he couldn't agree with the sentiment, with the words of the wrath-like copy of his father from the Chamber of Secrets. They had fought, they had lost - lost many. Lost _Pansy_ \- and yet even knowing he was going to die when Voldemort forced Neville to the ground he couldn't believe he had made the wrong choice.

_At least if I die... with my friends... with Harry..._

At the thought, Draco craned his neck hazily about the room. Where was he? Where...? His eyes fastened upon the half-curled form of his friend - of his lover, his _partner_ \- and he felt a searing pain of regret. If he could have one wish, one hope, if would be for Harry to survive. If only that. Even if he didn't survive himself...

Harry seemed to be struggling to move. As Draco watched him fight against the exhausting weight of the radiating magic, his fingers fumbled into his pocket. For his wand? Draco felt a brief flicker of confusion peer through the throbbing of his head, through the ringing in his ears. Harry hadn't used the wand once in the fight, so why would he start now? He was always better at wandless magic, not to mention effectively incapable of offensive spells. Defensive too, until recently. Was he going to try to shield Neville?

But the object that was tugged from his pocket wasn't a wand. It didn't even vaguely resemble one. Draco was baffled, his bafflement overwhelming his despondency as he watched Harry heft the black and silver object. Watched him point it across the room - to Voldemort - and pause. Saw the pained bite of his lower lip, the brief close of his eyes and the physical cringe, before his face hardened and -

BANG!

The crack like a thunderclap shattered the spell. Quite literally, for like a taut twine snapped in two, the duel streams of magic broke apart. The light hung for a moment, as though confused, before dispelling in a gust of explosive air after the ringing of the cymbal-like echoes. Neville and Voldemort were frozen, staring at one another, until the latter raised a hand to his darkly-swathed chest and pressed lightly. A wet stain seeped through the fabric barely visible. His spidery fingers came away red.

Turning, the snake-like man narrowed his eyes, searching for his assailant, until -

BANG!

The second shot could have been fired by a professional marksman. Some experts in Muggle Studies would later claim it was a complete fluke that the bullet even pierced through the magical force field. Others insisted it was the purely _because_ it was a Muggle weapon that it was able to penetrate that which repelled magic. Either way, it was an impossible shot, one in a million, in a billion, for an amateur. Yet somehow Harry it did.

Right between Voldemort's eyes, Draco watched as a red rose blossomed and dribbled a single, thick stream down the man's noseless face. An oddly dark trickle, as though diluted by ink. Like black blood. Those eyes widened minutely, for a moment - only a moment - before with a slump so slow he seemed to float to the floor, the figure of Voldemort crumpled to the ground.

Silence rung through the hall. Faces turned, sought out the attacker, and locked on Harry. Frightened faces, incredulous faces, uncomprehending faces all - and Harry didn’t seem to see any of them. Huddled on the floor, his gaze was locked on the fallen form of the greatest and most terrible wizard in the modern world, the wizard he had just taken down with a single Muggle weapon.

Motion struck the masses in a moment. Confusion reigned. Following a brief moment of stunned silence, an overwhelming cry of cheers erupted, clashing boomingly with a frantic buzz of questions. Through it all, shouts and cries of Death Eaters penetrated, but as if a switch had been flicked their sheer competency seemed to have died with their master. A smattering of spells and they were quickly overwhelmed.

Draco lurched to his feet. He had one thought in mind and one thought only. Ignoring the arising pain in his shoulder, he reached Harry's side in moments, wading through the crowd pushing forward with cries of amazement and triumph. Harry met his eyes as soon as he stood before him, the gun – the one Draco had seen at Defaux’s house, he realised - held limply in his hand. Wide eyes, terrified and horrified at once.

The world seemed to dislocate into the distance around them, a curtain draping over the fuzziness of unintelligible noise. Draco ignored it all. He barely spared a thought for those around him; they didn't matter. None of them mattered.

He placed both hands on the sides of Harry's head. The shorter boy tipped his chin under slight urging. Draco dropped his forehead down onto Harry's, pressing them together softly but firmly. The warmth of that brief contact became the centre of his world.

Slowly, Draco took the gun from Harry's fingers. It was cold, lifeless. Metallic. Without a thought, Draco tucked it into the pocket of his robes. Later. They would consider it later.

But for now...

“It's alright. It's going to be alright now.” Draco closed his eyes, dropping his voice to a whisper. He felt a faint huff of air on his chin, on his lips. It was almost a sob. “Everything's okay.”

Draco knew Harry was scared. Possibly more scared then he'd been when he'd fired the gun. Draco didn't understand why, exactly; he couldn't fathom a fear greater than that of his own encroaching death, the death of his friends and his lover. But he didn't have to understand it. He simply had to be there for him, for Harry, in any way he could.

The babble of voices surrounding them took on a euphoric tone. Forgotten briefly were the deaths, the pain and the destruction. In the face of victory, misery was overlooked. Temporarily, at least. It would return, and soon, but for now...

“It's going to be alright. I’m here. I’ll be right here for you. Always.”


	30. Settle To Rights

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: So this is the FINAL CHAPTER of the Masks of Real Heroes. Before I start, I'd just like to give an absolutely enormous thank you to every single reader, commenter and kudos-er. I have received such wonderful support for this story, the first I've had the courage to post. Thank you. Thank you so much. I'd love to thank each person individually, but I don't think I'd have enough words (or space) to do so.
> 
> As an aside, I (sort of) apologise for the lack of intimacy shared between Harry and Draco. I know that its often a prerequisite for fanfictions to have at least a little bit of a lemon embedded within. I was considering doing so for this story, but I don't know, it sort of felt a little cheap to just throw it in there, you know? But in saying that, I have something of a SEQUEL that I've been working on - which should be ready to begin posting pretty much straight away, for anyone who's interested - and I'm not going to say it's smutty or anything but I intend to explore their relationship a little bit more as well as the events directly after the Battle of Hogwarts. So... I guess, if you're interested...?
> 
> Once again, thank you everyone! Enjoy!

“I'm sorry, but I'm not a botanist. If there's something wrong with your plant, then you'll have to tell me how to fix it.”

Harry looked down at the little Mulch fairy as it tugged furiously on his thumb. They really were incredibly small creatures, the smallest of the Fairy genus. The little yearling before him was barely as tall as his smallest finger. And despite what he might insist from the creature, their voices were far too high and quiet for him to discern any meaning from their chirps and twitters.

With a sigh, Harry turned back to the drooping leaves of the shrub. He didn't know what the species was, but he was fairly certain its leaves weren't supposed to be mottled rust-turning dark brown. It positively reeked of sickness. He hadn't lied to the little fairy when he'd said he wasn't a botanist. He didn't know the first thing about plants. Magical creatures were his speciality.

 _Perhaps I can get Neville to take a look at it,_ he pondered idly. His friend would be visiting the day after next and was to this day the most avid Herbologist Harry had ever met. He just seemed to have a knack for anything with roots - and then some. The other man had taken great delight in boasting not a month before as he'd regailed Harry with his triumph in splicing subspecies to produce a rootless cacti. It seemed to border a little too much on the impossible for Harry's taste, but he could accept it. He'd gotten better at subduing his scepticism over the years.

In the years following what was later termed the Battle of Hogwarts, Harry had learnt more about the Wizarding world than he had previously conceived existed. A nasty surprise had been the perseverance of the British Wizarding news and propaganda network. As a primary contributor to the demise of he who had since been termed 'the darkest and most powerful wizard in memory’, reporters had been hounding his heels like terriers in a rat race. Neville had introduced him to a particularly persistent bug of a woman, Rita Skeeter, before loudly and intently suggesting that he keep as far away from her as possible.

Which was easier said than done. The desire for a story - what was the weapon that you used, specifically? Where did you get it from? How did you know it would penetrate the magical barrier when spells couldn't? Have you used one before? - had them clamouring at the gates of the Ministry appointed safe house he, Neville and Draco had withdrawn to in the aftermath of the battle. With each of them effectively unhoused - Neville had chosen to avoid his grandmother and Draco had point-blank refused to move back into Malfoy Manor - the now-sitting Minister Kingsley Shacklebolt had designated them a residence in which to while away their time in privacy. With Hogwarts effectively out of action, there was little other place for them to go.

“They're like leeches,” Neville had grumbled as he'd gazed upon the horde of clamouring reporters at the gates to the safe house. It was an impressive building, an old English farmhouse with more rooms and grounds than was entirely necessary for the three of them. But controversial though the size may be, none complained about the presence of the gate in place, ringing them like an impregnable wall. Keeping the house entirely secret would have caused more questions to be raised and more trouble caused than were alleviated for the frenzy it would elicit, so the gate was the next best thing.

“They're reporters. Of course they are. Just try to avoid letting them suck you dry,” Draco had replied in a voice that breathed boredom. He hadn’t even looked up from the chess match he was playing against himself, but Harry could hear the frustration in his tone. Draco was no fonder of the attention than the rest of them, and that in itself was telling. The blonde boy had always been rather prone to seeking the spotlight.

They’d stayed closeted for the majority of the summer. Hogwarts underwent a myriad of repairs and renovations, but school could hardly be continued for the rest of term, not with so many professors incapacitated and more walls damaged than stood untouched. There had been some distress over the matter, particularly from N.E.W.T students, but in the overall scheme of things it was hardly consequential. An intensive program was established before the end of break, eating into the new term, which would quickly remedy the issue.

The return to tuition had been controversial for Harry. Even with months hidden behind closed doors as he was, any glimpse outdoors – into Diagon Alley, Hogsmeade, and even the greater Muggle London – found he and his accompaniments chased down within the hours. It was horrible; Harry had never experienced such relentless pursuit before, had rarely been the centre of any attention before attending Hogwarts, and found it utterly unbearable. Neither Draco nor Neville – both of whom had become his near permanent companions – seemed to feel any better about the situation, however.

A climax was reached when Neville put his foot down in a storm of discontent one day. Barely a week before term started, the Harry, Draco and Ginny sat nestled in the lounge room of the farmhouse with the company of Hermione, Ron and Ginny. Blaise was still absent – he’d travelled down to Italy in the break with his mother and would only return a day before school resumed. Draco had said he needed a break, to some time. He wasn’t coping so well.

“I don’t know if I can handle it.” Neville paced the length of the room, long steps carrying him in five strides from one wall to the other. “And I know – I just know – that they’ll follow us to school. Bloody Skeeter will sneak past detection and there’ll be a page on us every day.”

Neither Harry nor his friends could find anything to disagree with Neville at Neville’s sentiment; there was no need to. They all knew the inevitable would occur, that their privacy would be invaded within the month and their every move laid bare to the eyes of the public. Ginny was receiving nearly as much hounding as Neville, and Ron and Hermione not much less.

“She wouldn’t dare,” Hermione replied, frowning. “We know she’s an Animagus. If she says anything, we could just –“

“You honestly think that will stop her?” Leaning back slowly in his chair, Draco regarded his folded hands moodily. “I would anticipate the enormity of the stories she could unearth would be nearly worth revealing her dirty little secret.”

Hermione clamped her lips shut at that. All of them knew Draco was more learned in terms of politics, even something as superficial as daily propaganda and rumour mongering. In general, his experience left them deferring to him in such matters. “So what do we do?” She asked.

The question had been posed at more than one instance throughout the afternoon. The six of them pondered silently for a moment, a now-familiar silence.

Ginny was the first to speak. “I don’t think I’m going back to Hogwarts.”

There was a moment of stunned silence before, in synchrony, Neville and Ron spluttered, _“What?!”_

Shrugging, Ginny dropped her eyes to her toes. “I just don’t think studying is for me. I’d like to be a quidditch player, I think; earlier this year there was a scout at one of our games. Against Ravenclaw. You remember, Neville? The weird guy with the ugly purple robe I told you about who came up and talked to the team at the end? He said I was pretty good and to contact him if I wanted to take a closer look.”

Neville stared at her open-mouthed. “But… what about school? You’re just going to drop everything on the off chance he might have something to offer you?”

Another shrug and Ginny met his eyes. There was determination there. “I just told you, Neville. I don’t think I’m suited for school. And besides, I’ve already contacted him.”

“What did he say?” Ron sounded breathless with awe.

“He’s got me coming to the next try-outs, but he thinks I’ve got a pretty good shot of making first string for the junior league.” The expression on her face became proud. She was obviously fighting back a broad grin.

Neville appeared in a state of shock. He didn’t speak as congratulations were offered, and remained quiet for the rest of the afternoon. When Harry had approached him later that evening, sitting disconsolately before the fireplace, after Ron, Hermione and Ginny had departed, he confessed he was at a loose end.

“The thing is, Harry, I don’t think I _want_ to go back. Not to Hogwarts, anyway.”

Perching on sofa beside him, Harry followed his gaze to the fire. The flickering flames seemed far too merry for the brooding ambiance. “What would you do otherwise?”

Neville was silent for so long that Harry didn’t know if he would reply. Finally he sighed heavily, frustrated, and, picking up a pillow from behind his back, launched it across the room. “I don’t know. I just don’t think I can go back to Hogwarts. Not after what happened there. Not with all the memories.”

Sighing, Neville closed his eyes, squeezing them tightly. “I don’t know if I could look at Snape again. Not after what he forced… no, after what he asked me to do. But then… I mean, it’s not just that.” Dropping his head into his hands, Neville scrubbed roughly at his cheeks. “Everyone who was injured. Everyone who died. I keep seeing their faces. And what with Blaise how he is, with Pansy… and then there’s my D-dad…”

His voice choked off at the last and the scrubbing stilled to simply burying his face from view. Harry waited silently; he knew nothing he could say would Neville. How could one offer solace to a friend who’d lost their only parent? Harry could never remember having parents. The closest that came were Narcissa and Lucius, and what he’d felt after what happened to them… He couldn’t imagine what Neville was feeling.

He could, however, understand his friend’s desire steer clear of Hogwarts. Yes, there were the faces, the memories of the bodies lining the Great Hall. Harry thought that he would never be able to step inside that room again without memories bubbling to the surface. He had enough trouble forgetting things in that he simply _could not forget them_. The thought of facing that every day… It caused him to cringe in anticipation.

But on top of that there were the other reasons. For Neville, it was the memory of his own death. Of what Snape had told him he must do, of the knowledge that he harboured a piece of Voldemort’s soul within him, had done so for nearly his entire life. Harry saw it in Neville’s eyes when he had revealed to all of his friends the secret unknown to the public, the real reason Neville had to die. The memory of Neville’s shudder as he’d spoken, of how he’d at first denied Snape’s claim, even after seeing Dumbledore’s memories, and had only silently agreed after witnessing the death of his father, of his friends, of so many… It would have been enough to drive anyone to turn tail and run the opposite direction from the castle.

For Harry, it was different. His memory was different. The image of the gun, firing and jerking back painfully in his hand. The resounding BANG, not once but twice. The bloody rose that blossomed in the middle of Voldemorts head, his eyes widening, before he collapsed from the bullet that _Harry had shot at him_. It was too much to consider, too much to remember.

Oh, Harry didn’t regret it exactly. If given the choice again, he would take it. To protect his friends, those friends who had come to mean so much to him – to protect _Draco_ – he would have shot every Death Eater in the room. It was a revelation that was as horrifying as it was grounding; Harry had people he wanted to protect, those he cared for more than anyone else and would save at the _expense_ of everyone else. It was both an empowering realisation and a daunting one.

Because Harry had already done it. He hadn’t simply made the survival of his friends possible, protected them and guarded them with his shield and his life. No, Harry had _killed_ a man. Even unanimously declared ‘evil’ by the Wizarding world – and likely a fair portion of the Muggle world also – it was the right thing to do, wasn’t it?

Was it?

For even knowing and acknowledging what he did, the memory weighed heavily on his conscience. He didn’t feel he had the right to kill – _to kill_ – someone. Robbing them of their life, extinguishing it like a flame with the simple tweak of his finger on the trigger of the gun. It wasn’t _right._

So Harry could understand Neville’s hesitancy to return to Hogwarts. Understood it on a level that he couldn’t explain, not accurately. There were no words to describe it.

“Then why don’t we not go back?”

Neville slowly raised his head from his hands. “What do you mean?’

Harry kept his gaze on the fire. It was easier than seeing the redness of Neville’s eyes, the messiness of his hair as he scrubbed a hand through it once more, yanking hairs with every tug. “Why don’t we just not go back to Hogwarts? I agree with you on this, Neville, I really do. And... I don’t think I can go back to that place.”

“What would we do if we didn’t?”

Harry shrugged one shoulder. “I don’t know nearly enough about magic to pursue something in the Wizarding workforce. And I’d have to keep going with schooling in the Muggle world if I wanted to start anything there instead.”

“You’re going back to the Muggle world?” The incredulity in Neville’s voice finally drew Harry’s eyes towards him. There was something underneath the surprise, something sorrowful, that captured Harry’s attention. It looked almost like loss. Mortified loss.

“No, I don’t think so. I don’t think I could every just ‘go back’ to the Muggle world, not after what I know.” He licked his lips hesitantly. “When I was first offered a spot at Hogwarts by Dumbledore, there was another man. A man from the Parisian School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.”

Neville frowned for a moment before understanding dawned. “Beauxbatons. You were asked to go to Beauxbatons?”

Harry nodded. “He offered me placement there, too. He seemed a little overenthusiastic in his offer, actually. It was a little overwhelming.” He smiled dryly in memory.

Neville didn’t return the smile. He seemed in deep contemplation over the possibility of attending a new school, as yet unsure. But there was a light in his eyes, Harry noticed, that had been absent hitherto. It was a relief to see its return. “Harry… do you think I could apply for a transfer?”

“I don’t know. You can only try.”

“And you?”

Harry pursed his lips, considering. Slowly he nodded his head once more. “I’ve thought about just sending an owl to the Minister for Education in France. I’d send one to McGonagall, too, just so she knew where I was thinking of heading, but I thought it would probably be best to see if it was possible on the other end first.”

Neville seemed genuinely enthusiastic by that point. He nodded his head rapidly. “Yeah, yeah I think you’re right. I think, yeah, I think that’s a really good idea.” A broad grin spread across his face. “Surely if we head deep enough into the Pyrenees we can escape it all, right?”

Harry could do nothing but smile in reply, even with the twinge of – guilt? – that flickered inside of him. Because there was one big – colossal, _monumental_ – flaw in that plan. One that nearly tore him apart to consider.

Minister of Education Mr Martin was overjoyed at the prospect of acquiring new students. Apparently, magical children were few and far enough in between for any fresh meat to be grabbed at with greedy hands. He had been just as enthusiastic with accepting Neville’s request, which had left the other boy on cloud nine in a mixture of relief and excitement.

McGonagall had been horrified at first at their suggestion, which had gradually slipped into reluctance and finally simple regret. She understood Harry and Neville’s arguments for leaving – both the strain of too many bad memories and the possibility of escape from British publicity – but had attempted to dissuade them in every way possible. Eventually, however, she had conceded to assisting them to fill out their application for transference.

“I’ll be sad to see you go,” she murmured tiredly as she stood beside the Floo in her office, seeing them off for the last time. Though she hadn’t yet assumed the Headmaster’s rooms, there had been little argument that she would fill the post. Harry wondered if she ever would. “Just remember, you are always welcome back at Hogwarts. Both of you.”

The two of them had nodded gratefully and disappeared before she could change her mind once more.

Their friends had been more colourful with their disputes. Hermione had been saddened, true, but Harry felt the girl was simply thankful that they were choosing to complete their studies rather than leave them unfinished. Ginny had been a little put out that Neville was moving to France, but had declared that she’d spend every moment she had off from work in the country as resolution. That international portkeys weren’t all that expensive when you got the Ministry-Approved discount, and that she was confident she could squeeze one from either her father or the Minister.

Ron, on the other hand, had been positively distraught at the prospect of losing his ‘best mate’.

“You’re just up and leaving me? I haven’t had a school year without you!”

“Ron, it’s not that I’m leaving you, I just –“

“I’ll come with you. I will, just let me transfer too.” Ron’s eyes had widened, almost panicked, as he’d gripped the arms of his chair. “I can’t leave you to those snotty-nosed Frenchmen. No offense, Harry.” Harry had only shrugged in reply, brushing the comment off. It was only faintly amusing, if anything.

“Ron.” Neville reattempted to placate his friend, resting a hand on his arm. “You know you can’t do that. Not now at least.”

And therein lay the problem. As one, all eyes in the room drifted unconsciously down to Ron’s legs. There was nothing particularly remarkable about them, not to look at anyway. Except for the fact that they didn’t work.

In the final battle, Ron had been struck in the back with an unknown curse that paralysed him from the waist down. Not an incurable disorder, not in the Wizarding world, but the delicacy of the central nervous system ensured that his recovery would be slow when it happened. Ron was permanently seated in a magically levitating chair of sorts that looked to Harry like a wheelchair without the wheels. He had bemoaned his situation until Hermione had scolded him, enforcing that he was lucky to be alive at all.

With such sad knowledge, his face falling into the dejectedness of a lost puppy, Ron had finally ceded that he would ‘allow’ Neville to go.

“As soon as I get these legs fixed, though, I’m coming over too!” He declared, and professed to start learning French immediately. The promise seemed to amuse Hermione to no end.

Draco, on the other hand, was not so easy to placate. He hadn’t spoken out in front of the rest of their friends – he was never so brash as that – but Harry had been aware of the force of his gaze upon him throughout the entirety of their discussion. It speared him and prodded at the guilt that had been steadily growing within him since he’d first begun to consider transferring school. Draco had the right to be angry, to scowl and curse at Harry for his selfishness. But he didn’t say a word, not in front of their friends.

As such, Harry let himself be pulled without comment into the solitude of their shared room as their friends were leaving. They always shared, even in the expansive accommodation they had spent the last few months. It just felt natural; more than that, it was unnatural that they wouldn’t.

Draco folded his arms across his chest and stared at him blankly. Well, blank except for his eyes, which seemed to smoulder like dry ice. Harry had nearly writhed in the discomfort of such focus.

The consideration for Draco had been one of the very few reasons that Harry had hesitated to send his application to Mr Martin. The thought of leaving him behind – as he undoubtedly would have to – even for such a short time was physically painful. But in the end, Harry had clung tightly to his decision, pushing through the resistance that caused whole-body nausea. Even though every fibre of him urged him to apologise profusely in the face of Draco’s lull before the storm and assure him he would rescind on his resolution, he maintained his silence. He had to do this. He had to. Through the roiling guilt, he knew this.

Finally Draco spoke. “You’re leaving me.”

It wasn’t a question, but demanded an answer nonetheless. “Draco, I’m not leaving you. That’s not what I’m doing –“

“Really? Then what are you doing?”

Harry sighed heavily, rubbing his forehead. “I just don’t think I can go back to Hogwarts. That’s all.”

“’That’s all’? Bullshit, Harry. I know why you don’t want to go back, and it’s –“

“Then you should know why I’ve had to chose a different school.” Harry cut hurriedly across him, hands reaching out to Draco imploringly. Draco didn’t pull away from him, but he didn’t sink into the touch either. “Please, Draco.”

Draco maintained his cold façade resolutely. He hadn’t cracked, not even when Harry begged him once more to understand. He’d simply remained silent for the rest of the afternoon.

It was another story when night fell. Harry hadn’t seen him all evening – Draco was surprisingly elusive when he wanted to be – and was just readying for bed when he felt arms lock around him from behind.

“Don’t leave.”

Sighing, Harry shuffled awkwardly around in Draco’s grasp, raising his own arms to grasp his waist in turn. “I’m not leaving you, Draco.”

“You are. You’re going away.”

“Just for school. And I’ll be back to visit you at every possible opportunity I can. Just like Ginny’s going to do with Neville.” Peering up at Draco’s face, he could make out the firm set of his jaw, the slight twitch in his cheek and the rapid blinking of his eyes. It bespoke a deeper sadness, an anger maybe, at the turn of events than he had hinted at. “I’m sorry. I don’t want to hurt you, but I can’t –“

“I know. I know why you can’t come back. You don’t have to explain.” Closing his eyes, Draco rested his cheek on the side of Harry’s head. His arms tightened almost painfully, but Harry didn’t object to it. “I’ll come with you.”

Sighing deeply, Harry let the suggestion hang in the air. It would be so perfect, was so tempting to simply agree with the suggestion. It sounded so good he could almost feel it. But he even as he longed for it, he knew it was impossible, just as Draco did. He just needed he other boy to realise that. Draco was being stubborn. His silence persisted, and his arms only trembled from the force of their hold.

Finally, Harry spoke. “You know why you can’t do that.”

“I can.”

“No, you can’t. Draco, just think about it for a moment. What about your mother?” Harry felt Draco flinch against him, a slight whimper inaudible save that it was whispered directly into his ear. “You can’t leave her here to come to Paris with me. You know that.”

“I’ll bring her with me –“

“That’s silly. You couldn’t disrupt her like that. Not when she’s getting better where she is.” For Narcissa, though still frail, was recovering beautifully under her current specialist. It would only undo all of their hard work if she were to move from her current situation.

“Then… I’ll just come with you. She’ll be alright.”

Harry’s breath caught. The implications of that simple statement were earth shattering. His heart thudded demandingly from somewhere in his throat. It was painful to swallow. “You can’t do that. You can’t leave her.”

Draco pressed his cheek more firmly into Harry’s head. “But I can’t leave you.”

“You’re not. I’m the one who’s doing this, remember? And it’s only temporary, only for a short time. I’ll be back to visit every chance I get.” Harry attempted a smile. He feared he failed dismally.

Stroking a hand through Draco’s hair, he sighed deeply. “Draco, I love you.” He felt Draco begin to tremble against him more vigorously. “I don’t want to hurt you, but –“

“I know. I know you don’t. And I know you need this.” Despite his shivers, Draco’s voice was steady. Harry would always admire him for that fact. “And that’s why… I know, I have to let you go. Just for a little while.”

“Just for a little while,” Harry agreed. It felt like his chest was being crushed in a vice.

“But just you wait.” Draco’s voice firmed. His grasp became less demanding, less of a clutch, and more of a hold of promise, of reassurance. “As soon as I finish school…no, as soon as my mother is well enough, I’m moving there with you.”

Harry could have objected. He should have said more, he knew. But in that moment, just for a moment, the desire to be selfish was overwhelming. He’d already asked so much of Draco; he knew he shouldn’t be demanding more. It wasn’t fair to him, none of it. But for the first time in his life, he made a solid decision for himself, completely against objection, and held to it. He simply nodded mutely, pressing his lips to Draco’s, and returned the fierce embrace with equal intensity.

Beauxbatons was the chalk to Hogwart’s cheese. Not only were the classes entirely different – they approached just about everything from a different angle to their English-speaking cousins – but the very pace of the learning was so much faster. This likely had more to do with their intake occurring two years after that of Hogwarts but finishing only a year later. As such, the speed of learning seemed to increase tempo exponentially.

Neville didn’t have quite as much difficulty keeping up as Harry at first. Well, at least when overlooking his difficulty with understanding the words spoken by the Professors. The crash course Harry had given him since they’d decided to move schools had been lacking at best, near redundant at worst. Still, he picked it up quickly enough.

That didn’t mean they weren’t nearly joined at the hip for just about every lesson they shared. Harry was Neville’s de facto translator for the first few weeks at least.

In the end, though, Harry was glad they’d made the change. Word had gotten out, naturally, but the Department of Education in France forbade such harassment from nosy reporters. Especially _foreign_ nosy reporters. Harry and Neville were relatively safe from such assaults. It was a welcome relief.

And Harry found his niche in Beauxbatons. Not in any particular friendship group – save for one in particular, befriending his peers was hardly a prominent part of his education. Rather, his interest in Magical Creatures grew and became one of his sole focuses of study. The final year of school, so focused upon the autonomous study of the graduating students, was agreeable with his increased focus. It helped that the course for Magical Creatures study was often conducted in conjunction with the Herbology equivalent; Neville was rather delighted at the fact.

When Draco finished at Hogwarts with flying colours – naturally – and, when his mother had recovered sufficiently, he made good his promise and moved to France. Narcissa had been adamant on the fact and, despite Harry’s objections that they not uproot their lifestyles. Unlike Ron, who had apparently forgotten his profession to acquaint himself with the French language, Harry was pleasantly surprised to find Draco had become near fluent in his preparation. Preparation that included seeking a Master for his Ancient Runes Apprenticeship specifically in France.

Narcissa declared herself well enough to travel, and despite Harry’s objections that she remain in the stability of her London setting, she had waved his arguments off and led the way for her small family’s intercontinental move. Not for the first time Harry was left a little in awe of the woman’s sheer force of will and ability to upend the world to pursue her goals.

Harry finished his own schooling and gained an apprenticeship under the recommendation of his favourite professor. Specialising in Mammalian Magical Creatures, he was finally able to pour himself into the field he so loved. It was a more fulfilling career path than any he had seen himself undertaking when in the Muggle world.

Harry and Draco lived with Narcissa at the Parisian Malfoy Manor. The building held fond memories for the both of them, and neither was particularly eager to seek independence by way of their own living quarters. Besides, Narcissa seemed to appreciate their presence. When she was around, at least. The woman had revamped her interest in the magical study of psychology and had become a professor at the distant Academy of Mind Magics. She was away from the manor as much as she lived in it.

Six years down the track, and Harry had thoroughly instilled his passion into the Manor. Primarily, this took the form of the extensive network of barns and gardens to the rear of the building. He’d been hesitant at first to install such extensions, but when the number of furry residents grew too much for the simple stable, Narcissa had taken matters into her own hands. Harry had returned from his studies one day to find a number of structures bigger than both his uncle Stephen’s and the Dursley’s houses put together branching off the back of the house. Narcissa had silently received his profuse thanks, the exclamations of ‘you truly shouldn’t have, though it is so, so kind of you’. She simply nodded acceptingly and requested that, should he acquire any further companions, that he inform her so she may install more accommodations for them. Since then, Harry had noticed her spend quite a bit of her spare time in the barn; she seemed particularly fond of the jarvey, a fondness that Harry attributed the majority of the mimicking creatures vocabulary to.

As a result, the extension on the back of the house was nearly twice as large as it had been originally. Harry had been rather sheepish upon realising as much, but the sheer delight of each of his magical friends was simply too great to fall victim to self-reprimand for too long. His newest acquaintances, the Mulch Fairies, had eased themselves into the workings of what Draco called Harry’s Menagerie seamlessly.

Well, excepting the rather worrisome deaths of their favourite shrubs.

The little Mulch fairy, dragonfly wings buzzing sadly in a mirror of its wizened face, seemed to sigh heavily when Harry informed it of his ineptitude with plant care. Or sighed as much as a creature the size of a very small phasmid could. The tiny creature was nearly as thin as the bug it resembled.

“Sorry,” Harry murmured again, resting an elbow on his knee. “But I did remember to pick up some pine needles for you.” Fumbling around awkwardly in one pocket, he scratched out a handful of the fragrant little needles. The fairy loosed a piercing shriek of delight and dove for them, beady black eyes brightening. Scooping them into its arms, the creature chittered excitedly before struggling into the air with its load and darting into the bushes.

Sighing, Harry eased himself to his feet. He’d seen the pine needle fortress the little colony of fairies had built under the patio; it was rather impressive, to say the least, and they were very proud of it. He’d be more than happy to supply as many as the creatures desired.

Wandering through the gardens, Harry passed into the stables and quietly greeted his friends. It was a low-ceilinged structure, and more of a rabbit warren of pokey compartments and open walls than would actually be comfortable for humans. Polished wooden doors branched off the central hallway, leading to a variety of specialised rooms each with their own resident species.

As he wandered down past door after door, greetings sounded after him. The Pegasus trumpeted a whinny as he passed, startling the pair of fidget into bouncing, chirping activity in the room across from her. A resounding call from the cockatrice contributed it’s own melody and soon a cacophony of sounds punctuated the air, echoed by the more sedate tones of the hulking arminadii.

Harry smiled as he noticed Lyssy wander from the pygmy skimple’s crèche; the cat fell into stride beside him, an expression of satisfaction in her step. She adored the skimples, spending much of every day staring at them. She had more than once attempted to steal one to tuck maternally into her own bedding, even when they grew too large for her to easily manoeuvre. The squeaks of the little creatures followed her departure, adding to the jingle already clanking through the air. It was a beautiful sound, Harry considered, despite how Draco complained that long exposure would certainly drive the most patient man insane.

Sighing at the thought, Harry’s mind drifted to his partner. Draco was overseas at the present. In Africa, of all places, at a new dig site. Predictably, Draco had quickly risen through the ranks in his field and even at the tender age of twenty-three was a respectable source for anything Ancient Runes related. Hence the eager request upon uncovering the latest find in the Amazon; Draco disliked field work, especially that which required him to trudge through any form of rough terrain, but even he couldn’t pass up such an opportunity.

He had been gone for nearly three weeks. It was a long time, considering they had barely been apart from each other for more than a week since Draco had moved to France. Harry knew it was selfish of him, especially after the decision he’d made to move to Beauxbatons in the first place, but he could hardly wait until Draco was back with him. He uncharitably resented the professors just a little for speaking so highly of Draco, recommending him for such far-flung projects –

A tingle in the back of Harry’s head swelled abruptly into warm fuzziness. Harry stopped in his tracks. Lyssy froze beside him, cocking her head questioningly.

_I think…_

_**Ah, is your tom returning? He is fast; fast, coming home so fast to see you.**_ Smugness, contentment, approval. _**He missed you**_. A purr rumbled from Lyssy’s replete smirk, a soothing litany to the softly projected thoughts that thrummed through the magical bond of collar and earrings.

Harry’s felt a smile split his face. He could hardly have contained it, even had he wanted to. Spinning on his heel, he turned abruptly and started towards the kitchen. If he hastened, he might be able to have a cup of tea waiting by the time his ‘tom’ got home. For despite living in France for nigh on five years, his Englishman still did love his tea.

* * *

Scowling at the parchment in his hand, Draco scratched out another line in frustration. The scrawl painting the thick material was so horrendous that the line of error looked neat by comparison. Lines, for that matter, for the page was strewn with them.

_Bloody Pollard. Not only is he as good as illegible, but he can’t write up a report to save his life._

It wasn’t the first time Draco had worked alongside Quinton Pollard, but he would strive to make it his last. The man had been in the business of archaeological Ancient Runes for ten years longer than Draco yet he still constructed his work like an amateur. Leaving his colleagues – Draco, primarily – to pick up the slack.

Sighing, rubbing a hand across the lines in his forehead, Draco slipped his pocket watch from his sleeve. Four-thirty, or there about. Still half an hour until his portkey was due to depart, which meant that he really aught to have time enough to finish reading through the drafted report. Even as illegible as it was. Draco supposed he should be grateful for the period of humdrum occupation. Had he been in France, he wouldn’t have gotten around to finishing as much. He just wanted to be home.

Three weeks he’d been gone. It was one of the longest expeditions he’d been on in his career, and when he’d received his request for assistance a month prior it had seemed like a marvellous opportunity. He’d always wanted to visit to the South American Branch of Archaeological Museum. To be given the chance to travel not only to the museum itself but also to the very source of most of its findings was too exceptional to pass up.

And it had been as grand as he’d anticipated. The little Wizarding village located in the very heart of the Amazon, in the ruins of Imergyian civilisation, had been breathtaking to behold; a clutter of mud-brick houses sprawled in a network of alleys and nearly swallowed by trees. The timber planking across the ground had been the only indication of pathways throughout the buildings; to stray from the pathways was to wind up ankle-deep in chilling, slurry-like puddles.

Being of the more refined societal circles, Draco had been dissuaded at first by the simplicity to the local lifestyle. Not to say they had been unfriendly, or unintelligent, or unhygienic even – surprising, as they seemed to revel in living atop mudflats – but… simpler. But being introduced to the true purpose of his visit had disregarded any initial discouragement.

The specialists in the area practiced an ancient form of magic that had died out nearly internationally. Not only that, but their knowledge of Ancient Runes, while not following the strain that Draco had specialised in, was fascinating to listen to. And the artefacts! Few had boasted discernible Runes themselves but those few were more bountiful than any collection Draco had stumbled upon in Europe. He was eternally grateful he’d packed one of those extensible bags Hermione had forced upon him.

And yet, even with such delights and fascinations, as the days drew on Draco had begun to grow weary of the stay. Little things that he had overlooked at the beginning – or had forced himself to overlook – began to irk him. He disliked the simple act of ridding his shoes of filth before entering his quarters; he’d had grown tired of the bugs that somehow seemed to penetrate the Repelling Charms layering the village boundaries. He longed for a long, warm shower, for those available were restricted by water regulation, and had grown rather tired of fish which seemed to be a staple in the area. But most of all, he missed home. Or rather more specifically, he missed Harry.

Since Draco and his mother had travelled to France for what was later to become a permanent move, Draco and Harry had rarely spent more than a week apart from one another. And a week was sometimes too long. It only served to remind Draco of his final year of Hogwarts and how much he had hated their long separation. Weekend visitations just weren’t enough.

Draco’s seventh year of school had been the worst year of his life. Well, maybe that was an exaggeration. There had been days of previous years that stood out as horrendous, certainly. Ones he cared not to reflect upon, for the physical shudder that would overcome him upon remembering. But that entire year had travelled so slowly and seemed to take such delight in its slowness, that Draco could only resent every day more and more.

He knew why Harry had moved to France. Knew, and couldn’t blame him. He recalled only too well the horror that had painted his partner’s face after Voldemort’s death, the tears that were shed at Pansy’s death. He remembered the nightmares that had woken Harry up with a start to lie shivering in his bed. That was a surprise in itself; Draco had never seen Harry wake from a nightmare before in the entire time he’d slept beside him, even with the events of his past that would more than explain as much. Draco could only ponder the trigger for his current response. He was sure he could guess.

Harry hadn’t shaken Draco awake at any instance, hadn’t spoken to him either the few times Draco revealed he had woken up with him. Harry seemed somehow ashamed of the fact that he was so traumatised by the events in the Battle of Hogwarts. Draco couldn’t comprehend why; he himself was had been woken more times than he could count, and Harry had comforted him when he’d been aware of them.

For whatever reason, Harry never spoke about his fears. He seemed to purposely thrust them to the side, as though to ignore them would be to eradicate their existence. In the years following, things had eased slightly; when Narcissa had suggested he see a recommendation of her own doctor to simply ‘talk’ about things – she drew gently upon his past and familial relations as the topic of focus – Harry still didn’t admit that he was pained by the Battle. Not initially, at least.

Draco found he could freely admit as much. Perhaps it was simply the environment; everyone at Hogwarts had lost someone they knew, someone they cared about. It was a known fact that the hurt, the pain, in the aftermath of the death of Voldemort touched them all. It was likely that which made it easier to admit. Easier to cope with, even, and to overcome, to move past.

In its own way, perhaps it was the need to support, to be strong for those around him that helped Draco come to his own peace on the events he had been partial to. That, and the companionship of Blaise. His friend had been hit terribly by Pansy’s death, more so likely than anyone outside of the Parkinson family itself. Maybe even more then; Pansy’s family had never been particularly close. And Draco found that, though his own pain was still raw, he could work towards moving past that pain, urging it to make way for fond memories, by supporting Blaise. Merlin knew he needed it.

With the preoccupation of Blaise, his mother’s continued recovery, and his own N.E.W.Ts, one may suppose that Draco was sufficiently distracted from his longing for Harry. Such was not the case. Many a time he had been on the verge of simply disregarding further studies and departing for France.

But then there had been his mother to consider, and even without Harry’s quiet reminder of the fact, he would have been held back from leaving her side. He knew she knew, too. Felt guilty about it, the regretful expression that crossed her face each time he visited her in the rehabilitation centre.

“Draco, if you want to leave –“

“Of course I want to leave, Mother. I can’t stand it in England, not when Harry isn’t here. But that doesn’t mean I want to leave you. And I won’t. I’m not going to leave you.”

Perhaps his words had been wrong, had placed a burden on his mother’s shoulders. Each time they had such a conversation, each time Draco cut her off, she would subside into thoughtful silence. He should have felt guiltier about it. Logic and past experience proved as much. He just couldn’t seem to fathom it. The ever-present frustration was driving such thoughts from his mind, and wouldn’t be waylaid by the all-too-brief visits from Harry, or his own weekends in France.

So when he had finished his N.E.W.Ts – satisfyingly enough, and on par with Hermione to boot – the first port of call had been a swift portkey to Harry’s side. His reluctance to leave it had led his mother to following shortly after; she was well enough by such a time, and her own eagerness smothered any protest of such travel. Draco hadn’t even had the chance to travel back to England before their small family had shifted to France in its entirety.

It was more luck that forethought that landed Draco with an apprenticeship. His interest in Ancient Runes had by no means been quashed by the war, or the events following it. His master, internationally acclaimed and sorely sought after as a teacher, had been more than happy to take on such an exceptional student. For Draco was exceptional – saying as much was purely recognition of fact rather than arrogance. He’d topped his year in Ancient Runes, topped the record twenty years running, in fact, and such was a delectable carrot to dangle before the nose of any hesitant mentor. The bait had been snapped up nicely.

In the years following, Draco had grown to love everything about his life. His previous ambivalence towards Paris had grown into a marked fondness. His love for Ancient Runes only grew stronger the more he learnt, the more thoroughly he embedded himself in works of translation and uncovering the cultures of the past. He fell into greater comfort in the French manor than he’d ever felt in London, and felt eased by the simple joy of living his mother found in their new residence, and later in her pursuit of teaching and her own research.

But most of all, he gloried in the love he found with Harry. Looking back on it, Draco could hardly believe he had survived the year they’d spent apart. It was far too long, and letters, no matter how frequent, could never carry the warmth of a handhold, the brightness of a smile or the musical sound of teasing banter.

Draco knew he wasn’t the only one to feel as much. Harry put on a brave face with his words, but each time they had reunited the shorter boy threw himself at Draco and the pair had simply clung to one another as though to let go would mean forfeiting life. Draco wasn’t ashamed to admit he had held on just as tightly.

It should have come as no surprise, then, that when Draco suggested they bond to one another – at the young age of eighteen, no less – that Harry had agreed wholeheartedly. And not just any bond; it was poignant, in a way, that Draco suggested they embed their relationship in stone with the Bond of Eternity. Harry had been the one to give him the ancient recipe, anyway. It held a continuity to it that rung nicely and brought a smile to his lips whenever he thought about it.

Even sitting at his desk in the guest room of the cabin he was afforded for his Amazonian stay, even at such a distance, Draco could still feel the small tingle of warmth in the back of his head that was Harry. Little could be felt through it save the simple knowledge that Harry was there. Not the faint colouration of emotion that sometimes radiated along its length, nor the soft vibrations that echoed words of love, of affection. But even so, it was enough.

Enough to bring the smile back to Draco’s lips, even as he drew a line through the last sentence of Pollard’s report. Placing quill and parchment down on the table, he drew out his pocket watch once more and grunted in satisfaction.

_Finally._

Leaving the parchment on the table – Pollard would come by for it later; the man had extended his trip for another two unnecessary days, the fool – he strode swiftly from the room. Granted, it would likely have been better for his career had Draco similarly extended his trip when the opportunity had presented itself, but… three weeks was still three weeks. And Murilo, his resident guide of sorts for the duration of his stay, had only smiled kindly when he’d expressed his wish to return home. His knowing nod had indicated he understood at least some of the reason behind Draco’s eagerness to be gone without being told.

The village was roiling in steady lethargy as Draco strode through it. Stray wanderers trekked slowly over wooden paths, carrying baskets or chatting idly. Children stumbled through the puddles and long-grass, heedless of the filth they coated along shins and feet. The smell of cooking – it smelt like fish again – wafted through the air, weaving through the squat, monochrome houses. Even so late in the afternoon, the air was warm. Too warm in fact. Another aspect Draco wouldn’t miss particularly. Especially given the thick burgundy robe he wore. Perfect for Paris this time of year, yet rather excessive for the depths of the Amazonian forest.

Weaving along the designated pathways, Draco made his way towards the village centre. It was hardly noteworthy; the Hall of Communion was only slightly larger than the largest house in the village, and that wasn’t saying much. Still, it was an impressive enough structure, Draco supposed. There was actually some colour to the awnings, and he was particularly taken with the Runes that ran around every doorway in nothing so much as a pretty pattern. Draco would have to see to sprucing up the Manor with similar décor. He thought it would add a nice touch to the Christmas parlour.

Stepping through the open door directly into the main room of the Hall, Draco was greeted by a trio of men; Murilo’s wide, toothy grin and crinkled eyes, the Director of the local school Josue Sosa, and a French woman who Draco thought went by the name Royer but he couldn’t be sure. In Sosa’s hands was a carved wooden wreath, barely the size of his palm and simplistic in structure. Upon Draco’s arrival, he was just releasing the wreath into Royer’s hand. The woman bowed her head, murmuring in thanks.

“Ah, Draco! About time, my friend. We were waiting.” Murilo’s grin somehow widened further. Draco had never quite shaken his uneasiness at just how many teeth the man seemed to have. He was sure it was a little unnatural.

Sosa only shook his head at the other man’s words. “Not waiting, no. We have a moment or two before the _ilefdahl_ is set to leave.” He nodded towards the wooden wreath in Royer’s hand, in case Draco didn’t realise he spoke of the portkey. Draco was always a little in awe that the man seemed to slip so easily into referring to simple objects by the ancient names.

Prompted by the words, Royer held out the wreath to Draco. She was a blank-faced woman, quiet, and with her eyes always faintly distant, though such blankness always seemed to somehow convey deep thought rather than simple-mindedness. Draco linked his fingers around the wreath when proffered.

Turning towards Sosa, he nodded his head respectfully. “I very much appreciate you accommodating my stay, Master Sosa. It has been a delight.”

“So formal,” Sosa replied, half-smiling fondly. “After three weeks, I had hoped your formality would wither a little, Draco.”

Shrugging in reply, Draco bowed once more. “Farewells dictate a certain sense of formality.”

Sosa cocked his head. ‘Ah, but let this not be a farewell. Let it be rather ‘for now’. You are most welcome to return, at any time you wish.”

Smiling with genuine gratitude this time, Draco thanked the man. Murilo clucked his tongue to call his attention. “Next time, you’ll have to bring your partner along, eh? Be able to stay a little longer, yes?” His still-widening smile spoke gleefully of the tease. Not for the first time Draco regretted telling the other man of Harry.

“I’ll be sure to ask him,” Draco murmured. It was better not to rise to the bait, not at the last minute. Besides, knowing Harry, he’d probably jump at the opportunity to take a look at some magical beast or fungi of some sort. What better opportunity?

Sosa and Murilo were both beaming brightly as the portkey whirred into action and, with a tug behind the navel, jerked Draco halfway across the world. His vision blurred into a smear of colours and dizzying speed until seconds later his feet slammed into the floor once more.

It was hardly a struggle to stay upright. Draco had taken more than his fair share of portkeys in recent years – international and otherwise – to let them shake him quite as easily as they once had. Dropping his hand from the wooden wreath, bequeathing it to Royer’s still grasping fingers, Draco started from the room he found himself in and headed down the proceeding hallway straight for the exit.

The International Portkey terminal in central Paris had become familiar to Draco over the years. The unassuming checkerboard tiles that filled every wide room, the black, elevated, stage-like dais that lay in the centre of those rooms and acted as a target site for the portkeys. The support staff stationed in every doorway, ushering travellers with pointless gesticulations that were barely heeded. Even the receptionists that lined the long desk in the equally unassuming entrance hall, all scribbling hastily on sheafs of paper or speaking with deliberate clearness to questioners.

As Draco passed them on his way to the exit, he noticed one receptionist in particular that he had happened across more than once. Stifling a groan, he dropped his chin and picked up his pace. _Please don’t see me, please don’t see me, please don’t –_

“Ah, Monsieur Malfoy! _Bonjour,_ how nice to see you again!”

Biting back a sigh, Draco paused and turned slowly to the blonde haired young woman beckoning him enthusiastically. Her plucked eyebrows waggled in a disconcerting display over eyes oddly bright given their darkness of colour. Turning and approaching with reluctant steps, Draco stopped at her desk.

“Were you trying to sneak past without notice, Monsieur Malfoy?” She giggled in hiccups, self-satisfied with her own wit.

“Not at all, Rachel. Simply eager to be home.”

“Oh, you do not need to drop by work beforehand?” Rachel hardly had an inkling of what Draco did for a living, but this didn’t reign in her questions. If anything, it exacerbated them.

Shaking his head, Draco cast a deliberate glance over his shoulder. Nothing too obvious, but enough to alert any self-aware person that he was eager to leave. “Perhaps, but I can always drop by later. I simply wish to see my own home, dine in my own dining room and sleep in my own bed.”

Unfortunately, Rachel was being deliberately obtuse. Or perhaps she was just as stupid as Draco assumed she pretended to be. “Yes, it’s always nice to sleep in a familiar bed. Where was it that you were this time?”

Draco had to bite back another urge to sigh. “South America. The Amazonian Institute of Archaeological Magics.”

“Oh my! How exciting! How long were you there for?”

“About three weeks, but I’m glad to be back –“

“I’ve always wanted to visit South America. Brazil; it’s my number one holiday destination.” Rachel pressed her hands together, prayer-like, as she gazed wistfully into the distance. “To visit Rio de Janerio… Or the Igauzu Falls! I’ve heard they’re beautiful, but I’ve never had the chance…”

The woman nattered on inanely, for all the world as though she was speaking to an audience of enraptured listeners. Draco didn’t quite understand why she felt the need to prevail upon him her love of exotic locations. It was a new favourite destination every time Draco met her, and she’d educated him on more than a few throughout the course of their unexpected – and largely undesired – relationship.

He didn’t really know what else to call it. Rachel wasn’t looking for a partner; the ring on her left hand and the frequent references to her husband spoke as much. She didn’t seem particularly interested in were Draco had been, either, though she made a half-hearted effort to ask before launching herself into a new tirade. Draco suspected it was simply that he wasn’t one to rudely cut her off and tell her he was leaving, and her constant stream of words dissolved any attempts on his part to slip a word in edgeways.

In the back of his head, he felt the blossoming warmth that was Harry unfurl into a daffodil of amusement. He could likely feel Draco’s frustration, and given the relatively accurate locating effects of the Bond of Eternity, would also likely guess the cause of it. Draco had spoken briefly and curtly of ‘his friend Rachel’ as Harry had called her on more than one instance. He seemed to delight in teasing Draco of his inability to escape from the rather nettling situation.

Finally, however, it was Rachel’s job that saved him from an eternity of getting his ears talked off. A round, blustering man huffed up to his side and spluttered a question over the woman’s chatter that effectively ground her to a halt. She hardly seemed upset at the prospect, however, and answered the man with equal enthusiasm, as though directing him to the South-East Asian departure quarters was the very reason for her existence.

Draco slipped away when he could. The crisp air outside of the International terminal was a refreshing reprieve from his near imprisonment. It was quiet near the magical building; situated in a ring of acreage on the off chance a portkey shorted and dropped its riders outside of the predetermined point of depository. It was far more considerate than its London cousin. As such, within three steps from the front doors Draco Apparated without fear of Muggle suspicion.

He landed within an instant on the path leading up to the front door of the Manor. Right on the edge of the anti-Apparation wards, within the gates and just in sight of the house. Draco always loved the walk up to the front door. The picturesque manor looked like a dolls house seated on the expanse of immaculate grass, pointed rooftops reflecting the orange of the evening sun and wide windows blinking at his approach owlishly. Unlike the sprawling yet lovingly attended stables to the back of the manor, the front was purely pristine. So perfect as to be breathtaking.

Taking the steps up to the front door two at a time, his burgundy robes swirling around him in a flurry, Draco stepped onto the threshold of his house once more.

The first thing that met him was the smell. A faint sweetness, warmth, like freshly baked bread… Scones? Possibly. The smell was intoxicating and set Draco’s stomach growling. He hadn’t even realised he was hungry.

The second thing was the faint clatter from the direction of the kitchen. The sound of pots and pans rattling against the floor and a rich, bubbling laughter echoing from the wide room. The distant words “… can’t help it if you must, Diddy…” followed close behind.

Following his nose and his ears, Draco made his way from the brightly lit entry through the tunnel of hallways to the kitchen. The nearer he drew, the warmer Harry’s presence. The larger, the softer, the brighter. It fit the image of his lover perfectly when he stopped in the doorway, pausing as the light of the white kitchen flooded upon him.

His hair was a mess, but that was normal for this time in the evening. No matter what he did to it, Harry couldn’t seem to tame his wayward tresses. There was flour across his cheekbone, more coating his fingers, and nearly as much rested in a handprint on the forehead of the house elf peering exasperatedly up at him. The pair seemed to be caught between an argument and open amusement, Diddy holding a tray of uncooked scones in his hands while Harry gestured hazily to the open stove behind him.

The smell of cooked scones was stronger from the doorway. Following his nose, Draco saw a small plate with steaming pouches already waiting. A teapot and matching teacups ringed it; it was a picture of perfection and Draco’s clenching stomach grumbled once more.

At his appearance, Harry turned abruptly from the house elf towards him. Diddy took the opportunity to slip his tray towards the oven, smiling in satisfaction. Harry and the house elves were forever at odds about Harry’s participation in cooking, despite the fact that he claimed he rather liked it. The exasperation was clearly wrought over Diddy’s face.

But Draco barely noticed the house elf. His mind was drawn even from the scones and tea as he watched Harry’s face light up and a wide grin spread across his cheeks. His eyes widened and sparkled brightly; he hadn’t worn glasses save briefly in years and in that moment Draco couldn’t have been happier for the fact. Not when such beauty and joy seemed to radiate from them like a visible light.

Neither spoke as they both leapt across the room towards one another. Draco wasn’t sure who reached whom first, but it hardly mattered. The force of arms locking around his waist, of a chin pressed into his shoulder. The smell of flour, of warmth. The smell of _Harry._ It was perfect.

When Draco slipped his fingers into Harry’s hand, those that locked within his own were soft and warm.

He was back home and exactly where he wanted to be.

_~ The End of The Masks of Real Heroes ~_


End file.
